


From Sacred Ash

by Son_of_Caliban



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apostates (Dragon Age), Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Major Character Injury, Major Original Character(s), Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Self-Insert, Solas is Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, War, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27986877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Son_of_Caliban/pseuds/Son_of_Caliban
Summary: Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor & Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor & Solas (Dragon Age), Male Inquisitor & Varric Tethras
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Stumble From the Ashes

I stop falling seconds after I begin. The world around me is green and grey and black and harsh, light from a hundred sources that should not cast it reflecting off of crystal and stone and bone and flesh. Chittering black shapes move around, circling, hungry like carrion birds. Spiders, or an approximation near enough to count. My fingers curl, searching for a weapon. My sword. 

My sword?

My hands rise to my head. My fingers tell me my face is young, squared jaw, strong chin, hint of stubble near the neck. My hair cut so short it may as well not be hair. My fingers are mailed in metal, armoured, as are my arms, my chest. I touch fingers to breast and feel metal touch metal instead. Why am I in plate mail, tracing the engraved symbol of a sword down my torso? Where is my helmet? Where’d the waterfall go?

“You must run!”

A pointed thought interjects into my own, breaking the train with a spike of panic. It is a woman’s voice that says the words inside, not mine, fraught with fear. Like the spurs on a horses flank it sets me to motion, terror filling my own mind as I realize I’m surrounded by giant spiders wearing the armour of a medieval knight, when moments or minutes or hours before I was jumping off the waterfall with Beck on a date that was itself a dare.

The creatures let out cries of piercing anger, pursuing me. They aren’t really a swarm; what I thought was a hundred was nearer to ten, but ten spiders of colossal size is more than none, which is itself the ideal number of giant spiders to exist in the world. Too many legs move too quickly; spiders are quick and I am not, my armour unusual on my body, pulling and pushing with weight I do not know. I stumble and twist helplessly, not quite so clumsy as to fall yet just imbalanced enough to make my flight ungainly and slow.

There is a hill ahead, or a cliff face at a gentle enough angle to be mistaken for a hill. Atop it, my eyes find a golden light amidst the sea of sickly green. This is familiar to me, in an odd way. Why? The creatures shriek and call, goading me on and up. Gold is good, sometimes. My mind supplies the back half of that thought and I blink in surprise before a spider screams and I remember I’m fleeing for my life.

The gold isn’t just light. It has a shape, reaching toward me, vaguely feminine with a massive triangle rising from her head. I don’t understand that, but the giant spiders are warning enough that things are strange around here. She reaches for me.

My foot catches a stone and I stumble, but my hands catch the ground and I prevent myself from breaking this foreign face of mine. I reach for the golden hand, the silent figure’s desperation evident in how she strains to reach me.

I feel a sensation in my hand, itching and thrumming that grows to a dull ache, then a sharp pain. Emerald light engulfs my palm, tendrils reaching out to wrap around my fingers. A sound of a strange and vaguely ominous sort fills the air, a distant roar like water in a tunnel, a waterfall in the distance while Beck shyly takes my hand, leads me down the trail and I thank Marshal for calling me a coward the day before.

Green light flares, a flash and agonizing burn all over my hand, and I stagger as my feet touch solid ground and cold air surrounds me. I stumble again, but not from the armour. I’m so tired, limbs heavy, head pounding, a hammer slamming each of my eyes from within my own skull. Figures approach me, two men, a woman, swords in their hands. 

“Help.”

I utter the only word I want to speak, reaching for them, before staggering forward one last time and hitting the mercifully cold ground. My hand, my left hand, is stretched out before me, steaming in white snow, melting it as the pain and green both fade.

“Fade...” I hear the people whisper as they surround me, murmurs under their breath, spoken in hushed horror and surprise. “Templar... alive?”

Too many voices, none of them clear like the woman’s. I let out a sound of pain, wordless and harsh, eyes shutting, and then slip silently into the blackness of sweet, kindly unconsciousness.

I awake with pain. Less pain, my body no longer aches quite so badly, my head is not pounding. But my hand, burning with green once more. That sound, the distant roar, now mixed with something catching and tearing a substance that is not meant to tear. I hear steel on leather, swords freed from sheathes all around me, let out a groan as the pain fades with the green once more.

My head comes up. I’m on my knees, arms shackled at the wrist, blinking blearily at the room around me. It’s familiar. Not as it should be, not from this angle, but familiar. I let out a breath and I can see the two men ahead of me, one to the right and one to the left, tense, swords twitching in uncertain hands. They grasp them too tightly, squeezing the hilt, the sword trembles. They’ll never strike true like that, the point twitches and misses, the edge failing to catch the desires opening and scraping from metal.

Idle thoughts, not my own, spring up unwanted. I am confused. What do I know about swords? I blink, look at the man to the left. He’s young, freckled, a farmboy with broad shoulders who doesn’t know what to think. He flinches away from my gaze. Afraid of me, but more afraid of something else, something bigger.

Their armour. Brown leather and dulled metal, strange collars that jut outwards and unfamiliar shapes. Unrealistic, almost silly... but familiar. So familiar.

“Where am I?”

My voice is clearer than it should be, but fortunately it is my voice that speaks the words I want to say. I’m surprised I’m not more thirsty; people who wake up in prison cells often are.

The men tense even more when I speak, swords trembling. The one on the right is more certain then his leftwards counterpart, older, smaller in build but with a grey beard that speaks to experience. His sword is loose in his hand, his grip canted slightly forward, angled to stab. An Orlesian style, turning an arming sword into a rapier. This one knows how to fight, better than the other. 

Orlesian.

Fade.

Green light in my hand, aching and burning. Green light, in the hand, causing pain. 

“Silence, prisoner.”

The older man speaks but I’ve already fallen into the silence he commands, more stunned than submissive. The words. The voice. The sword on the breastplate, the green light in my hand.

Two words spring to mind, my words this time, not the ones about swords.

Dragon Age.

“What the hell?” I whisper, shocked and shaken, a sinking sensation seizing my stomach. “No. No. I’m not.”

The door opposite me opens, and two figures step through. Cassandra. Leliana. Their names are in my mind. Cassandra is furious, Leliana hiding fear and curiosity behind disgust. Reading people. It easier than it should be. I’m good at it, Marshal says it’s cool but a little freaky. My hands tremble. Leliana come close, closer than I’m comfortable with, stares into my eyes.

“Lady Leliana.”

The words are mine again, and I can see a measure of surprise as she leans back just a touch. She’s good at hiding her feeling, but she’s shaken, foundation cracked, the mask has yet to be fixed. She did just lose her mentor to a massive explosion, so that checks.

“And Seeker Penteghast.”

Cassandra freezes behind me.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Her voice is cold, angry. Leliana conceals her hate for me, and uses it as a mask all the same. But Cassandra is open with her loathing, plain in her voice and angry hand grabbing my wrist. The Mark, that’s what the green is, it’s the Mark, I know that now... it doesn’t flare. I am spared the pain. 

“Explain this.” she commands, punctuating each word.

“It hurts.”

I speak honestly, and she throws my arm away with disgust, circling around me. Her pants are oddly tight for a woman who fights from horseback, no armour on her thighs to shield from swords. Very strange, but her hand drops to her sword and all thoughts of that shift to survival instincts, my own hands tensing. I don’t have a sword, I remind myself, I’m a prisoner. 

She points the sword at my throat, the point hovering inches from my Adam’s Apple. Her fury and sorrow are fire and ice in her eyes, and I watch as she debates killing me with herself.

“I’m sorry I was too slow.” I say, and she pauses in surprise.

Shoulda spun a story. Varrick’s words in my mind. Spin a story. Make a tale. But I don’t have to. I remember now, coming backs in fragments and half-visions. 

The Sergeant, his name was Tulane. We were part of Conclave, standing guard as ordered. He heard noises from down the stairs behind us, leading to the basement below. He ordered me to investigate and I went, creeping through the dark with my hand on the hilt of my sword, eyes scanning the shadows.

I heard a woman’s voice call for help, familiar to me. Justinia. The Divine. I went, running forward, sword pulling free of its sheath, crashing through a door left what. She was in the air, tendrils of red light surrounding her, a malformed thing looming before her. 

Corypheus, my mind reminds me. Part man, twisted and ghastly with metal shards embedded in his face and skin peeling back from his chest, exposing ribs. His garments were black as knight, a collar of raven’s feathers, arms bare, long and twisted with fingers like the feet of a bird, ending in long talons. His voice was a fearsome rumble, declaring my presence an intrusion.

I rushed him, two things to his sides surging forward to protect their master. 

“I didn’t have any Lyrium.” I murmured, as the memories came back. “I spoke the Litany, tried to stop the magic, but they told us no Lyrium, the Conclave was a peaceful gathering. It was so much, too much, I was alone...”

I’m speaking my thoughts now. Not spinning a story, just remembering aloud, telling the whole tale. I don’t even see how they react, eyes locked onto the glow in my left palm as I continue the sordid tale.

“He had an orb, in his hand, black glass or crystal covered in swirling patterns. There was red in it, a glow. I thought it must be the catalyst, so I tried to take it from him. Take the catalyst, break the spell. I grabbed at it with my left hand, reaching, but I was too slow...”

The Divine screams as red overtakes her, turning to green partway through her combustion. I feel agony coursing through my arm, then and now, the hand the epicentre of it. The twisted thing curses me, calls me a fool as we are both flung far into...

“The Fade.” I say. “I was alone, demons around me. I ran. Ran and ran, they were on me, I forgot the Litany and my sword and everything. There was a woman, gold light, she was reaching to me, told me to run. I tried to reach her... and then I was in the world again. There was snow, stone, ashes... I fell. Everything went black.”

I whisper the last words in shame, shame I feel in my chest as memories of Justinia’s demise echo in my mind.

“I was too slow...” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I wanted to stop it but I was too slow...”

I stare at the floor as Leliana and Cassandra speak to each other. The first speaks softly, the latter curses and shouts. Leliana doesn’t believe me, but she believes my story may be true. Cassandra is confused. 

I failed. I couldn’t stop it. The Divine was gone. Dead. I failed. I wasn’t strong enough, again and again, like with Mercer and Marie. Too slow, too weak, too young. Always too little, never enough for what needs to be done. 

“What is your name, Templar?”

Leliana asks the question, while Cassandra seethes and ponders, pacing by the door.

“Markus.” I say, voice low, aching with grief I don’t wholly understand. “Markus Venier. I’m sorry. I should have been faster.”

“Markus.” Leliana’s voice is calm, collected, even. Impossible to read. She has answers. Uncertainty, some of it at least, has gone. The mask is back, and it’s impressive to behold. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” I speak truth once again. 

“Young.” Leliana murmurs, as if noting the fact in her head. “Why were you at the Conclave?”

“Our Circle didn’t rebel.” I explain, growing calmer as I remember more of this story my mind tells me is mine. “They were afraid we would hurt them, but the Captain said it was our duty to keep them safe. He sent Senior Enchanter Caldwin to the Conclave, along with Sergeant Hughes to guard him. I was sent as part of the escort, the Captain thought I should see the world a little.”

I smile at the thought of Captain Vendrick Sarker, simply Venerable to most of the Circle. Old, and kinder than most Templars of his rank. He’s a good man. I wonder if he’s...

I don’t know him. But I do. Why do I know these things? Why do I know any of this? How did I get here?

My confusion seems to pique Leliana’s interest, interrupting her further questions I did not hear. But before she can question me further, Cassandra speaks.

“Is he telling the truth?” her voice is harsh, but I can feel the edge of desperation that rings beneath. “Leliana?”

“If he’s not, then he’s a better liar than any Templar I have known.” Leliana replies, staring me down for a moment. “This changes things, Cassandra.”

“Not the plan.” Cassandra replies, her anger buried now by firm conviction. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will bring him to the others, test Solas’ theory.”

“I will meet you there.” Leliana says, nodding, before sparing me a final glance. “If he causes trouble, be gentle. We need him alive.”

She departs in a swirl of chain mail and leather, and Cassandra reaches down to pull me to my feet by my arm. I rise, legs stiff and sore but functional, strong enough to hold me. I stagger into her a little and she grunts, pushing me back an equal distance.

Then she leads me out of the room.

My armour is gone, I realize. I’m wearing the heavy clothes of a peasant who lives in the mountains, dense roughspun and a coat lined with rough fur. I have no weapons, my sword likely still lost to the Fade. My sword. The sword of a Templar. Which I am.

I ponder as Cassandra leads me on, barely paying attention to her words or the hateful stares of the many stunned refugees. She places a hand on my shoulder as we walk to guide me and I go where she bids, sunk deep into my thoughts.

Who am I?

I’m Marcus. Marcus Venier. Born in Vancouver, raised in Abbotsford, boring and plain with an edge of the modern geek. That much is true. Or am I Markus? Markus Venier, who shares my name and voice and some of my face but comes from another world? A fictional world? 

Markus Venier. Born in a small town in the south edge of Orlais, sent to the Chantry as the fourth son of five. Sent from there to the Templars, trained as a warrior of the Order. Assigned to the small Circle in the Dale, where he finished his training and became a fully fledged Brother of the Order. A good life, with much potential. But not my life.

Or is it Marcus whose life was not mine? It’s confusing. Something to deal with later.

Cassandra speaks again, but I don’t hear. Not for lack of trying; the Mark flairs and I let out a sound of anguish. It hurts, so much more, fire in my palm, fingers burning from tip to knuckle, pain needling and burning and aching all at once. I let out a sound, voice cracking, collapsing forward into the snow. Tears flood my eyes. 

A hand on my shoulder, another on my arm. My left hand steams, melting the snow, the soldiers nearby watch with a panoply of emotions ranging from disdain to sympathy. Cassandra pulls me up, and I let out a quiet whimper. 

“Sorry...” I murmur, voice weak. “I-I don’t know why it-“

“The Breach is expanding.” she cuts me off, pointing to the great green hole in the sky that looms over the whole mountain. “Each time it does, your Mark mirrors it, and it is killing you.”

The words are ones I’d heard before. A few times, in fact; I wasn’t given to playing the same game fifty times, but I’d given Inquisition three total runs. Hearing those words spoken to me? Not to Lavellan, or Trevellyan, or Adaar? That was terrifying.

“That’s why you need me...” I murmur, as she pulls me to my feet. “You think, maybe I can... fix it?”

She stares for a moment, and I smile weakly.

“I’ll do whatever I can.” I promise, nodding. “I-I’m a Templar. This is my duty.”

She stares at me a moment longer, and then a rare smile, or at least the idea of one, breaks through that grim expression of hers. She nods in approval, even, and in my mind’s eye I can practically see “Cassandra Approves” in the bottom left of my vision.

“It is good to hear that.” she replies, before reaching for her dagger.

For a split second, I panic, taking a fearful step back. She too seems to hesitate, before reaching out with an open hand.

“I’m cutting your bindings.” she explains, and the panic in me dies at the sincerity in her tone before I offer her my wrists. 

The knife comes up and saws for a second, before I’m pulling my hands away from each other and shaking the sensation back into them. My fingers prickle as the blood begins to flow properly, but compared to the agony of the Mark it is a sensation barely worthy of notice.

“Come now.” Cassandra says, gesturing to the path ahead. “The valley is in chaos; we must make haste.”

“Haste sounds good,” I agree, following her. 

We make it to a stone bridge, over a gully, and halfway across it I remember what comes next just in time to shout an ineffectual warning before a green meteor slams into the bridge behind us and sends us tumbling down amidst the rubble to land on the frozen stream below.

The impact rattles me, but Cassandra is up and moving the moment we land. Beside me a soldier moans his last breath in a pitiful cry for help, his upper body pinned under a chunk of stone the size of a dishwasher, a sword clattering from his hand onto the ice below. 

Another comet hits the ground, a wash of black and green erupting from the impact point, and from the hole comes a monster. It’s a human shape in theory, a torso and head and two arms, but it’s lower half simply splays against the ground, sliding along like its coming from beneath the earth. It’s face is hidden, thankfully, two yellow eyes peering at us from darkness under a ragged hood. It lets out a horrible sound and charges, and Cassandra rushes in to meet it.

“Shade! Stay back!” she calls to me, before slamming into the creature with her shield.

I fully intend to obey that instruction, climbing to my feet, until the ice a few feet in front of me begins to bubble and churn with that inky black as well. An eruption of green, a hideous shriek and a second Shade joins its brother in the effort to kill me.

I don’t think. My body turns away, hands reaching, grasping the sword the soldier dropped. I turn again, the Shade raising its hands over its head, hissing at me as those wicked claws descend. I twist my body with the blow, sword in two hands, driving the edge deep into the flesh at its side. The Mark is pulsing with power, the ache back, the green glow expanding and growing brighter as the sword catches.

I pull, hear a wet sucking sound as black blood falls from the wound. My sword comes clear, and I step in and drive it deep into the thing’s leathery neck. The Shade’s wail of pain turns to a piteous gurgle as it falls back, dying on the end of my sword. It hits the ice and fades away, melting into black sludge that itself evaporates into green mist.

Cassandra has the other Shade managed, so I move around the side to flank it just in case. She catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and I murmur the Litany of Forbiddance as the demon brings its claws to bear, forcing it to become more real... and thereby, more sluggish. I don’t know how it does this; my tongue feels warm in my mouth as I speak. Is this what Templars do? The stuff we never saw in the games

It’s enthralling. 

She rams her sword into its chest and kicks it away, but instead of watching it die she cleans her sword on the cloth dangling from her hip. I think of doing the same, until I remember that the blood vanished with the body. Ritual, then. Easy to understand. 

“You aren’t going to tell me to drop the sword?” I ask, and Cassandra shakes her head.

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have when the Shade was alive.” she replies. “And you are a Templar. I am a Seeker. If we do not trust each other, we will not make it out of this valley alive.”

I nod. It’s reasonable, surprisingly so for a religious zealot. Then I remember that here, I too am a zealot, and fall silent before glancing at the path between the cliffs to my right.

“If we follow the stream...” I begin, and Cassandra nods. 

“Stay behind me.” she warns, as we carry on. “I have a shield. You do not.”

The logic is something I can’t debate, so I follow in obedient quiet. Marcus or Markus, whichever I am, I’m still human. I’ll still die if I get chopped open by a Wraith or blasted by one of those green-ghost creatures. The sword in my hand is well made and evenly balanced in my grip, long enough for two-handing if needed. Markus is familiar with blades of its sort. Marcus is not.

Markus. Marcus. Marckus. 

No, I decide. That’s awful.

The journey forward is longer than it was in the game, and much less action-packed. The mountainside looms above us, and as we continue I feel the Mark pulsing with power. It’s an ache now, not burning, and it glows brighter as we grow nearer to what Cassandra says is our destination.

We climb a set of stone stairs, the sounds of violence above us. Demons brawl with soldiers and two familiar figures. One is too short to be human, wielding a crossbow nearly as large as he is. The other, tall and bald and pointy of ear, strikes a chord in me.

Fen’harel, my mind supplies. 

Solas.

Both are fighting for their lives, crossbow bolts and little bullets of magical energy blasting away at the demons. Cassandra lets out a war cry as she charges and I follow, sword in both hands. The Litany that springs to mind is Dominion this time, weakening and supplanting the demons with my own willpower and faith. The words are fire and brimstone, instating the absolute and undeniable might of the Maker. 

My sword is quick, my feet are quick, I am quick. Markus was good at this, and I am a fast learner. The muscle memory helps, the motions automatic. A Shade charges, I backstep it’s overhead swing and surge forward, slashing at its face to blind it. Turn away and take it from the side, then strike at the neck from above. Decapitation. These demons are mindless, might and anger without intelligence to guide it. It’s almost sad to watch, knowing what Solas tells you about them. 

Within a few moments, it is over. As the demons die they are pulled back into the rift before me, their corporeal forms vanishing into flecks of green and disappearing into that horrible hole in reality. And when they all die, Solas comes to my side and grabs my left wrist, thrusting my hand towards the rift.

In the game, this is a boring animation by the fiftieth time you watch it. Hand goes forward, beam of green light, several seconds of nothing, pop goes the portal. Easy and bland, something that probably should have been either shortened or altered as you went on. 

In reality, however?

My hand screams in pain, the undiluted energy surging through the Mark causing a wash of fire to run up my arm to the elbow. Solas holds tight but he may as well not; I don’t think I could move my arm from the shoulder down, tensed as it is from the anguish. I grit my teeth hard enough to make them creak, refusing to scream out in pain again, as the rift rebels against being unmade. 

Then, finally, there is a pop and a snap and thrumming sound as the rift vanishes, leaving behind a gooey black substance that forms into a puddle on the ground beneath where it once hung in the air. Solas lets go of my arm as the pain fades and I stumble forward again, cradling my hand. It hurts, it still burns, and I press it against my chest and let out a weak whine against my will. 

“It worked.” Cassandra utters, shock in her voice, while hands larger than hers touch against my arm. 

“You alright, kid?” Concern is evident in the gravelly rumble, and my head flicks to the side to see Varric Tethras looking at me with an almost paternal expression of worry on his face. 

“Just… the Mark…” I groan, opening the hand and watching as the last of the green light fades. “It hurts sometimes…” 

“My apologies for the lack of care, but the situation was desperate…” says Solas in that smooth, refined voice that had earned him a thousand and one fangirls. “Are you well?”

“I’ll be fine.” I reply, climbing back up to my feet. “It worked… this is actually good for something…”

I stare down at my hand, the mark visible as a misshapen scar of green on my otherwise pale hand, thrumming with inner light, specks of black running through the verdant lines. It still hurts. It’ll probably always hurt. I figure I’ll get used to it.

“I don’t know about good, but it’s useful.” Varric offers, before offering me a hand to shake. “Varric Tethras. Author, rogue and occasionally; unwelcome tag-along.” 

He winks at Cassandra as he says it, and I can hear the disdainful noise she makes. I take his hand in my own and give it a firm shake, impressed at his grip.

“Markus Venier.” I reply. “Templar.”

Varric pauses at that, before chuckling.

“Oh, this is going to be one for the journal,” he says, before stepping back. 

“If there are to be introductions, I am Solas.” the elf speaks from behind, and I turn to face him, though he doesn’t offer me a hand to shake. “I am glad to see you are well.”

“And by that he means, “I kept that mark from killing you while you slept”,” adds Varric. “Looks like it was for a good cause.”

“Thank you.” I say to him, and he smiles faintly at the gratitude in my voice. 

Even knowing who and what he is, it’s hard to dislike Solas. He lets off this air of general politeness, a bit of mystery and that elven serenity that makes him seem so ageless and… well, cool. There’s something badass about somebody who can be so unflappable in the face of armageddon. Suddenly, I consider, I understand where the fangirls came from. 

“If we are all done making introductions, I believe we have a much greater issue ahead.” Cassandra interjects, pointing to the Breach above us. “We will have to cut through the valley, and it is teeming with demons.”

“Good thing we have Sirs Tethras and Solas then.” I reply. “They seem to know how to handle themselves.”

I can almost see her bite back a complaint about Varric, but Cassandra seems refreshingly more reasonable in person. That or she trusts me more than she trusts the not-yet Inquisitor, likely due to the being-a-Templar affair that still has me confused. Are Lavellan, Trevellyan, Adaar and whatever the dwarf-Inquisitor’s name is still involved? Did they all die? Questions for later, I suppose. 

The journey into the valley was uneventful. We killed some demons, searched a burning building for survivors (none present, unfortunately) and followed a side path to a frozen cave where a Shade of increased size but equal vulnerability to swords, magic and crossbow bolts died at our hands. I also found some gold on the ground and engaged in my own personal brand of rabid kleptomania, which Cassandra found mildly disconcerting until Varric noted that gold was gold and it wasn’t as though I hadn’t earned it. 

It was on the path up and out of the valley that the question came to be asked. 

“So, kid…” Varric spoke, using my new nickname he had so eagerly assigned when I had made the mistake of revealing my age. “Are you innocent? The Seeker seems to think so.”

“I tried to stop it.” I say, and the genuine pain in my voice surprises even me. “I just… wasn’t good enough. She died in front of me. The explosion… I wasn’t fast enough.”

Markus or Marcus. I don’t know which hurts more. Markus’ pain is in the failure, the inability to prevent this from happening. Marcus’ pain is in the realization. I’m here. Stuck. I can’t just… go back. If this is anything like the stories, I’m trapped forever in this world. No more Beck, no more Marshal, no more video games, no more scouring the used bookstores for old pulp stories by Moorecock and Howard. No more buying little plastic men for exorbitant sums of money and painting them in a variety of colours. No more of any of that. 

I’m stranded. Markus failed. Marcus is lost. I, both of me… 

Tears flood my eyes and my breath catches in my throat. Up ahead I can already hear the next fight, the rift outside the forward camp. Before Varric or Cassandra or even Solas can say anything, I’m moving, sword in hand. I can think about this later. Angst can come when there isn’t a sky to mend.

A Wraith rises from the earth, wispy and green and hardly real. I don’t speak the Litany of Forbiddance this time so much as I shout it, forcing the ethereal to become material so my sword, its edge alight with a white gleam, can cleanly split it in two. I continue to chant, words coming to my lips unbidden, but mighty all the same. Killing with words. I am literally banishing demons by speaking aloud. This is addictive. 

“Strike the bell the fifth time, speak the chant aloud,” I call, as a Shade misses me narrowly with its jagged claws, smiting it across the back. “A cry to heaven, black as coal, a sin which we renounce.”

Varric fires at another Wraith, and it lets out a whistling sound as it too is sucked into the Fade once more. The Shade twists towards me, arm outstretched, and I slice its twisted hand off at the wrist.

“Lament our loss in passing, now, but never shall we fear.” My sword flicks through the air, cleaving a clean cut in the creature’s collar, and making it reel back. “Our sovereign song, it echoes now, a music to His ear.”

I call to the Maker for power as I drive my sword deep into the Shade’s chest, its final cry in death pathetic to my ears. My sword is glowing now, the steel catching white light from within, a radiance I admire. The rift contracts above me, folding into itself, and I reach up towards it with my left hand.

Once again, fiery pain envelops the arm. Once again, I fight back against it, biting back a scream until the rift vanishes, and the world is made whole once more. Only then do I sigh, avoiding a total collapse to the floor this time around but otherwise still feeling that deep-set ache. 

“Another rift sealed, and with such haste,” Solas notes. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.” 

“Well, practice does make perfect.” Varric agrees, eyes watching the Breach with a wary smile. “I just hope you can get perfect down before we take on the big one.”

“I’ll do my best.” I promise, nodding to the both of them, before looking at Cassandra. “Is this the-”

“It’s about time you all happened along!” 

The voice that speaks in unnervingly familiar, dry and vaguely American, with a sense of quiet menace in it. A voice I’d heard speak some two-thousand plus lines of dialogue, directed wholly by my thumbs. 

The large wooden doors of the bridge that the forward camp was built upon swung open, and a figure approached us with arms spread wide in amusement. A Qunari, female, with a warhammer in her grip that seemed almost uncomfortably large. Her skin is a rocky grey shade, her hair much longer than any Qunari I’d ever seen in the game.

“The Nightingale’s up ahead, arguing with the old man.” she declares, her smile fading a little at that news. “I was told to wait for you to warn you; the old man isn’t too excited about this plan.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s permission is unnecessary.” Cassandra replies, before shaking the Qunari’s hand. “Thank you, Sergeant Adaar.” 

“Any time, Seeker.” the woman apparently named Adaar grins at her, before those dark blue orbs flick to me, then down to my hand. “And you’re the unfortunate bastard who’s gotta close that thing, huh?”

I nod, and she laughs again. 

“Good luck.” 

As Adaar walks away, I begin to think again. That’s one potential Inquisitor accounted for… and apparently, it’s a mirror of my last player character. If this is going to be a trend… I shudder at the thought. A female Lavellan. 

Holy shit Qunari are real in this universe.

That thought hits like a hammer. I just met an actual Qunari. A dwarf was one thing, but I know short people IRL, so a dwarf is an easy idea to accept. Elves… Solas isn’t that weird, and the ears are just that. Ears. But a Qunari is a few steps up from human… literally. I just spoke to a woman who was about seven and a half feet tall. 

Marshal would have had a field day with this place. 

“You will do no such thing!”

The agitation in Chancellor Roderick’s voice is plain for all to hear, Cassandra very much included. I can hear her sigh in fatigue, before Leliana retorts with her point that it is crucial for me to make it to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Roderick’s reply, that it is an exercise in futility, will be laughable in hindsight. At least, I hope. 

“Lady Leliana, Chancellor Roderick.” I make sure to greet both of them as I approach, saluting the Chancellor as is his due from a Templar. Markus remembers that.

“Ah, and here he is.” Roderick draws himself up from his lean, standing straight and proud. “Seeker Penteghast, I order you to arrest this boy and take him to Val Royeaux for trial!”

“Order me?” Cassandra’s disgust resonates in every syllable. “You are a glorified clerk! A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” says Roderick. 

“We serve the most Holy, Chancellor,” Leliana interjects. “As you know well.”

“Justinia is dead!” Roderick’s grief shows through the arrogance, and his hands hit the table with a loud smacking sound. “We must elect a replacement, and obey her edict on the matter!”

“And when will the Chantry hold this election?” I ask, gesturing to the sky with my marked hand. “Before or after the Breach has buried all of Thedas in demons?”

Roderick looks at me, eyes narrowed. Behind me I hear Varric chuckle, muttering about writing something down. Then, the Chancellor deflates, all pomp and pretense gone, and his despair shows clearly on his face.

“Call a retreat, Seeker.” His words are less a command and more a plea. “Our position here is hopeless.”

“There is still a chance to stop this,” Solas says, stepping forward. “The young Templar has already sealed two of the rifts. I theorize he could seal the rift beneath the Breach as well.”

“Theories from a hedge mage.” Roderick scoffs, but there is no bite in his words this time. “I suppose the dwarf also has a scheme in mind?”

“Chuckles hasn’t been wrong so far.” Varric replies, shrugging. “If he thinks it’ll work…”

“If we press up the hill with all our forces, we should be able to break through.” Cassandra declares. “After that, Sir Venier can seal the Breach.”

“Sending him in with the soldiers would be risky,” Leliana shakes her head. “We can send our forces in as a distraction. You could escort him up the path through the mountains.”

“We lost contact with a whole squad on that route.” Cassandra mirrors her friend, before looking at me. “It’s too risky.”

Before Leliana can reply to that, the Breach emits a pulse of green energy, a terrible ripping sound filling the air for a moment and knocking me off my feet as the Mark echoes the effect. I scream this time, unable to bite it back; it feels like I dipped my closed fist in acid, while clutching a fistful of burning rags in my palm. The rest of them just watch, but I can barely see Roderick move towards me, around the table. Then the Breach pulses again, and the world goes white

The pain finally fades, and I realize I’m curled on the ground, in the snow, laying on my side. Varric and Roderick both stand over me, the former waving a hand in my face. 

“Kid?” he says, and I let out a weak groan as I begin to uncurl my body.

I take his hand and let him help me up onto one knee, before letting out a broken sob. Nobody said this bullshit would hurt this much. The Inquisitor in the game just grunted and groaned, and only fell over once before Trespasser. This… I’m half tempted to ask Solas to chop my arm off now, and save me months of agony. 

“If that happens while he charges with our soldiers, he will die.” Leliana warns. “Cassandra…”

“The mountain path.” I gasp. “It has to be the mountain path. If I don’t get to that Breach… I’m going to die, and I can’t close it if I’m dead.”

“This is suicide.” Roderick declares, and I look up at him through teary eyes. 

“Please Chancellor…” I hold a hand towards him, the unmarked one, and without a moment’s hesitation he helps me up to my feet. “Let me do this. The Templars… we’ve been failing the world since Kirkwall. I can’t…”

Markus speaks. Marcus listens. Roderick listens too.

“I don’t know how this happened.” I declare, truthfully. “Why I survived when so many died. I don’t know if it was providence, magic or just the foolishness of fate. But… I must do this. If I am to die, I want to die doing the right thing. Not running. Not hiding. Fighting for Thedas. For all of them.”

Roderick stares at me for a long while, eyes searching my own. Then, impossibly, he nods.

“Go.” he says, gesturing to the mountain. “Do what you must, Templar. And may Andraste watch over you.”

“And you, Chancellor.”

My fist claps against my chest, though the resounding clang that usually sounds is not present thanks to my wearing a coat rather than armour. But he bows his head, and I depart with the rest of the party having hopefully averted several future disagreements. 

As we climb up the mountain, following a goat trail towards the abandoned mine, I let my mind wander again. Marcus. Markus. Am I both? Neither? I don’t know. Markus spoke back there, but it was Marcus who knew why it had to be said. Markus fights. Marcus knows why we fight. Markus brings the Templar powers, but Marcus… Marcus knows what’s going to happen. Just about every little detail.

People die in Inquisition. A lot of people. Not your party, but innocents perish left and right, try as the game might to hide that from your. Rape and murder are common in war, and even the mages and templars are willing to admit their conflict has gone beyond a simple war. Venatori are monsters. Demons are literally monsters. 

I can’t run from this. Markus would never and Marcus can’t bring himself to. 

Home is gone. I can accept that. Marcus can accept that.

But this world needs saving. And I’m the one with the agonizing magic tattoo that can save it.

“Fuck it.” I whisper, words lost to the mountain winds. “Let’s save the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a weird one.
> 
> Is it a Self Insert? Not really. Marcus is like me in some ways, and unlike me in others. Markus is an OC completely, born of a very simple wish of mine that Inquisition had provided a more Origins-like opening where you could truly change your character's beginning depending on class, race and backstory. The opportunity to play as a Templar is something I've longed for in Dragon Age ever since learning of their order in Origins.
> 
> Aadar, Lavellan and Trevellyan will all make appearances in this story. No dwarf, though; I have never played as a dwarf, though it's on the list after the current playthrough wraps up and I play at least seven-thousand hours of Cyberpunk.


	2. A Voice in Red

Half an hour ago, I needed a weapon. Now, I reflect, sword braced on my shoulder, I need a sheathe. I probably should have thought of this earlier, but the situation was escalating at such a rapid pace the idea never occurred to me.

The climb is about as arduous as the game originally implied; a nice long trek up a snowy mountain trail, with lots of quiet grumbling from Varric about how "dwarves don't actually like mountains all that much" and the occasional wordless rebuke from Cassandra. Solas is the only one to stay silent, his staff occasionally pulsing with a gentle orange flame to keep himself warm. I, meanwhile, am grateful for the heavy boots and coat I was given to wear.

The winds whistle and howl and the valley stretches out beneath us, Orlais to our right and Fereldan to our as we ascend the northern face. It would be beautiful to behold were it not for the colossal green hole in the sky above me tinging everything a sickly shade it should not be, casting its fell light like a second sun. I hum the Litany of Endurance under my breath, a comforting sound to my ears.

"So, kid..." Varric eventually strikes up a conversation with me, his voice a little lower than is perhaps necessary. "While the Seeker is out of earshot, how're you holding up?"

I glance towards him, then at Cassandra, thirty feet ahead and powering the snow like a motorized plow. I shake my head slowly.

"Terrified." I admit. "If this works and I do close the Breach, what happens next? Most of the people here think I... I did this. If they find out I failed to stop it..."

"People can be assholes." Varric agrees, nodding. "If it helps, I don't blame you. You tried your hardest, and against whatever caused... this..."

He gestures to the sky with both hands, before shaking his head.

"I don't think any Templar or mage could have done any better." he finishes.

"Hawke could have stopped this." I murmur, but he hears me and sighs.

"Maybe." he agrees, reticence in his voice. "But she's not here. So the world'll just have to make due."

"I hope we can live up to the task." Solas adds from behind, his voice a little strained. "It would be a shame, were this all for nothing."

I glance at the Mark then, swallowing hard as a pit of fear opens up in my stomach. My eyes flick upwards, looking at the Breach hovering in all its malignant glory, and I whisper a few words from the Chant of Light for comfort.

"When there was no sky, Maker..." Varric glances at me as I pray. "You were the sky..."

"I'd prefer a Maker in the sky over this thing." the dwarf agrees.

Solas chuckles, and I join in after a moment. Varric smiles, and it takes me a second to realize he's pleased about a job well done.

Cassandra, up ahead, calls back to us to hurry up. The winding trail disappears where she is, an imposing black cliff rising hundreds of feet into the air, with scaffolding clinging to its rocky face with almost desperate tightness. The ladders are nice and tall, and already Varric lets out a quiet sigh of agitation at the thought of scaling them.

Then, right before we reach Cassandra, I hear the Breach flare, expanding again, and am afforded a moment in which my heart can sink before the Mark flares with it and pain envelops my arm again. I stagger into the cliff face, leaning against it with a tiny whine escaping clenched teeth, the Mark burning bright and hot on my hand.

The pain is lesser this time, but it lingers longer, a good ten-plus seconds until finally it fades and the spots stop dancing in my vision. I take a deep breath, then another, glancing at the party. Solas watches with a veiled expression; his curiosity is obvious, though I do detect the faintest trace of empathy in his eyes. He would understand pain like this, after what he did.

Varric is concerned, openly so. He doesn't hide it like Solas or Cassandra; he walks towards me and puts a hand on my arm, saying nothing. He doesn't need to; I thank him regardless.

Cassandra... Cassandra shakes her head, slowly.

"This was a mistake." she declares, looking up at the scaffolding for a moment. "If you fall..."

"I won't." I promise, shaking my head. "If we hurry, I usually have a while between pulses. A fifteen minutes is more than enough to get into the mines."

She doesn't like it. It's easy to see, on her face and in her fists, the way they tense as if rebuking the world for leaving her without choice in the matter. But choice is revoked and the world cannot be rebuked, not as it is. I am the only who can do that… and to do so, I must climb. This much she agrees with, and so we rise.

The ladder is cold in my hands, slippery with frost, but I hold tight and will myself not to fall. Beneath me, Varric grumbles about ladders built for humans, and I chuckle at the sound. Higher and higher we climb, a second ladder, then a third and final. I step into the yawning black mouth of the mine, eyes searching the shadows for demons. Once more I whisper a Litany, this time of Revelation, commanding hidden things to be real.

It is difficult to describe the Litanies. They are not magic. Not really. But they aren't not magic, in truth. They are something more. Something I can't give justice to. Words spoken that make reality more than itself, force the immaterial into the material and demand that the inexplicable explain itself. It is power, plain and simple, limited by the constraints of the human voice. Without Lyrium, they are less than they could be; a fire with no fuel, matches without kindling to ignite. Weak, but present. Light and heat where there was cold.

Difficult to describe. But not impossible.

Nothing appears at my demands, and so we continue. I can feel their eyes on my back as I lead, but this tunnel is dark. In the game, I recall lit braziers, but this time there is nothing. Yet as I speak, my sword once more emits that soft glow, and from the back Solas burns a tiny flame at the end of his staff. Cassandra and Varric fill in the middle of our little column, and we pass through the tunnels without interruption.

The cold winds tell me first that we are nearly free of the dark. Then the light ahead, Varric letting out an audible sigh of relief. I climb the slope out, followed by the others, and into the open air of another mountain path.

In the distance, I hear the clash of metal on metal, shouts and screams. The Mark aches on my hand, a dull throbbing with the faintest traces of that burning heat licking at the ends of my fingers. I swallow, but the Breach does not contract. Cassandra takes the lead again as we continue our march, Varric walking beside me now.

Up ahead, around a corner of stone, we find the source of the sounds. A few soldiers in the armour of the Chantry faithful, locked in combat with demons. And above them I see, my Mark flaring at its presence, another rift. Cassandra spares me a passing glance, and I nod. We raise our weapons and cry as one, charging down the shallow hill towards our embattled allies.

My sword descends in a wicked arc, splitting a Wraith in two. Forced to be real by my Litany they are fodder, like slicing through paper strung taut, no durability beyond the faintest binding of magic. Solas blasts a Shade that approaches him with a rush of fire, and I turn to aid him in time to take a wicked cut across my shoulder. I grunt in pain, the claws of another Shade passing through the roughspun and furs like it too were paper, before turning back.

"His word, His oath I shall recount, I make His promise mine!" I shout, as I bring the sword to bear, slashing the Shade across it's hunched shoulders, my sword once more alight with a pale glow. "No beast nor demon born of Fade shall challenge the Divine!"

It breaks under my repeated strokes. It is a sloppy kill, sword rising and falling like an axe on wood, but butchering, for all its lack of finesse, makes short work of the living and nonliving alike. It dies and I breathe a sigh of relief, as the rift contracts before me.

I do not hesitate. It hurts, as always, burning and aching, but the rift closes and I let out a triumphant cry as I stagger backwards, bumping into a figure who barely catches me with strong arms. My hand stops its glowing as I am gently steadied by hands from behind. There is an almost musical chuckle as I am guided to an upright position, before one of those hands squeezes my uninjured shoulder.

"Steady now, I have you." speaks a very familiar voice, that sets me to blinking in confusion before I turn to see an elven woman with skin the colour of teak wood and eyes of vivid aquamarine smiling at me, a thin and elegant two-handed greatsword slung across her back. I had seen her from afar, but had not identified her. Now I know. The voice, the Dalish tattoos forming an arcing spiral around her left eye before circling down under her cheekbone and flitting behind her ear...

"Thank you…" I say, voice strained a little more than I'd like.

"'Tis only necessary." she replies, the smile going nowhere. "You are the one Lady Nightingale spoke of, he who bears an emerald mark."

Her hands clutch at mine, one in particular, pulling my left hand up to her eyes. Her touch is soft, kind, as she examines it, turning my hand this way and back, peering at my palm. A finger traces the sigil and she frowns a moment, and I wonder if it isn't perhaps elvish.

"Most curious…" she says, before releasing me from her grip as Cassandra draw near. "And yet, I fear we must away soon. I am Devehra Lavellan, a scout for Lady Nightingale. Might I know the name of our saviour-to-be?"

"Markus." I reply, bowing my head. "Markus Venier."

"Mutual pleasure, I hope." she says, before looking to Cassandra. "Seeker Pentaghast, I thank you for aid. I had feared all of us to perish here."

"Thank Sir Venier," Cassandra says, shaking her head. "It was his choice to come this way."

Lavellan looks at me, her smile back after such a short absence, before dropping down to one knee. I pause in surprise as she lays a hand across her chest. Moments later, the other three surviving soldiers, all human, supplicate themselves as well in a matching pose.

"Thank you, Sir Venier." she says. "We are in your debt."

"Only insofar as I survive what comes next." I assure her, though I notice Varric's expression darken at my words.

"Return to the forward camp, Lavellan." Cassandra commands. "The mines are clear of demons."

"My men will go," Lavellan replies, gesturing for her soldiers to do so. "But the path ahead is fraught with chance of peril. I would beg leave to remain with your company for a time."

Cassandra stares at her for a moment, but this time it is Varric who interjects.

"Spiral's more likely to find an easy path than the rest of us, Seeker," he notes, gesturing to Lavellan with a nod. "I'd prefer it if we knew which way we were going. And one extra sword can't hurt. It's not like she'd slow us down."

"I agree with Varric." Solas adds, stepping forward with metaphorical two cents in hand, leaning against his staff. "The Dalish are expert pathfinders, and we risk losing ourselves in the snow without her."

Cassandra looks then to me, and I pause. She does care about my opinion, already, before I've done much of anything. I consider it for a moment. Lavellan is here. Not my Lavellan, thankfully, I chose to play a pompous elven mage for my second run to give Solas someone to bicker with. This is an improvement, I feel, and not just because Devahra is a real person whereas Yevven was the result of my inexperienced fiddling with the character creator. She seems much more stable than Yevven was… and, both Markus and Marcus agree, easier on the eyes.

"A guide would be useful, and she has proven herself against demons." I note.

Cassandra nods then.

"It is decided, I suppose," she says. "With us, Corporal."

Lavellan smiles at that, falling in beside me as we march onwards through the snow.

It is a long hike to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, half an hour at least. It's also a cold and windy hike, though the healing potion I down for the pain of my opened shoulder helps fight the cold a little. Healing potions, as it turns out, taste vaguely of green tea. It isn't unpleasant, just surprising.

Lavellan is a talkative sort, finally giving Varric someone to bounce off of in his boredom. The two chatter about elves and dwarves and humans, trees and rocks and snow. Stories are mentioned, the oral traditions of the Dalish and the written (or more often, carved) word of the Dwarves. She even teases him about Swords and Shields, a copy of which she had apparently found aboard the ship she sailed with to get here, a conversational topic which sees Cassandra pointedly looking away from both of them.

It's pleasant to listen to, almost relaxing. Between their banter and the lack of Breach contractions, I can almost forget about the upcoming danger and certain pain. Eventually, however, I speed up a little, trying to catch up with Cassandra.

"Lady Seeker," I greet her, before she raises a hand.

"Please, Sir Markus, just Cassandra." she says. "I never expected to grow so tired of my title, but I have been called "Lady Seeker" at least a hundred times these past few hours. You and I have fought demons together. Cassandra will do fine."

I smile at that. Already on a first name basis? That's a promising start. I keep pace with her as best I can, though her longer legs give her an advantage in the snow.

"Cassandra, then." I say. "I… I want to thank you. You had every reason to distrust me, but you've been fairer than any would dare expect you to be."

"I only wish we had thought to armour you before heading out of Haven," she replies, gesturing to my wounded shoulder. "But then… I was not so certain of your innocence as I am now. I still cannot say that you did not do it, but I must admit it seems very unlikely by now."

"I wouldn't expect trust, to be honest." I shake my head. "Maybe… I don't know. But I am thankful all the same."

"As am I." she says. "You… you seem a good man. Or… boy. A good knight, at least. After this…"

She peers up to the Breach, a distant look in her eyes as if she's somewhere else entirely for a moment.

"I will commend you to the Lord Seeker." she declares. "What you've suffered for this mission goes beyond the call of any Templar. You are a credit to the Order… and a sign of hope for its future."

I smile at that, a real and genuine smile. It's one thing to be complimented. It's another to be told that you are a credit to an organization of which you are a junior member. She sees me smile, and even goes so far as to smile back.

"You have earned that much, at least." she concludes. "Now… the Temple should be just up-"

Her words are once again cut off as the Breach and the Mark both flair with power. I bite back a scream, taking a long step forward and bracing myself. Behind me I can hear Varric rushing forward, and another with him. Lavellan or Solas I can't say. Cassandra though, is the one to take my arm and hold me upright, a resolute expression on her face. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as the Mark continues to burn, and I lean against her for strength.

She puts her arms around me, and for a moment I feel like a child being held by his mother, seeking comfort in the pain. The Mark flares one more time and I can't muffle the quiet sob that breaks free from my throat before the pain begins to fade and I let out a deep sigh. Cassandra releases me, but keeps a hand on my arm until I've regained my balance.

"I-I'm sorry…" I flush red, but she shakes her head at my embarrassment.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of." she says. "I cannot imagine what pain that thing must cause you."

"More than enough." I manage to say, and behind me Varric chuckles again, his rush forward halted. "We shouldn't stop. Not when we're so close."

The rest of the party agrees, though I can feel Lavellan and Varric's eyes on me as we continue. They worry for me. It's… comforting, to know they care. Even Cassandra glances towards me from time to time, focusing on my hand, on the Mark. It stays quiet as we ascend, but the nearer we get to the Breach the more that dull throbbing sharpens, until we ascend to the Temple proper and it feels rather like I'm pressing my hand against a large metal spike, not quite breaking the skin.

I hide the pain as best I can. I need to focus. At the Temple entrance, there are soldiers fighting demons. I see a figure in red on horseback I can only assume to be Cullen, brandishing a polearm of some sort. Warriors clad in patchwork armour from a dozen sources, fighting and dying for me. We enter through an opening in the wall that was likely once a side entrance, now a gaping wound in the stonework. There is a triumphant cry from behind as the demons continue to die, but then I see the rift between us and the army, and realize what must be done.

"If that rift stays open, the demons won't stop." I realize, looking towards it. "Cassandra-"

"There is no time." Cassandra retorts, shaking her head. "Please, Sir Markus, we must go."

"I can't." I say, shaking my head. "I can't let them die for me."

And I go, towards the rift, sword in hand and a battlecry on my lips. I hear Varric follow behind, a shout of "oh what the hell" his chosen warcry, before Lavellan shouts something in elvish and follows. Solas comes with us as well, his gentle tread barely audible… then heavier steps join our charge, and Cassandra follows with shield high.

The demons at the rift itself barely have a moment to react before we hit them, swords and bolts and magical blasts tearing holes in their number. There are more here, dozens rather than a handful, Shades and Wraiths and a twisted thing I identify as a Horror. The soldiers ahead of us, on the other end of the demons, see our charge and are emboldened. I hear a powerful voice that must be Cullen calling for a charge, and three warriors on horseback, Cullen at their head with two Templars on his flanks, surge forward into the demon lines.

The infantry follow, and then the battle begins for real and I have no more time to watch.

A Shade lunges from the side, trying to get inside my guard. I turn away from him, bringing the sword up from below to strike across its face. It snarls at me and I bring the sword back down, shouting rebukes from the Litany at it to bring that holy edge back to my attacks. I lose sight of the Terror in the chaos, a soldier in the gilded armour of an Orlesian footman slamming into my target with his shoulder to knock it off balance, before bringing his two-handed axe down into its skull.

I give him a nod of acknowledgement before grabbing his shoulder and pulling hard, away from the Shade behind him. It misses due to my effort, claws cutting nothing but air, and I lunge forward and bury my sword in its throat with a thrusting strike. My sword comes free and I turn to my left, in time to see Lavellan nimbly leap over a Shade, twisting in mid-air to slice open its back with that elegant sword of hers and landing behind the dying demon.

Then, I feel a prickling along the back of my neck as something that should not be makes its presence known. I turn in time to see the Terror erupt from the earth, tossing soldiers around like ragdolls. Its barbed tail lashes out, opening the Orlesian's neck and leaving him choking to death in the snow. I move to intercept it, but Cassandra gets there before me, her shield catching it's claws mid-swing. They tend through the steel, at least at first, but soon catch. She punishes it with a sword in its narrow belly, two more of our soldiers joining her attack and slashing at its legs.

The Terror dies before it can scream, an arrow in the neck finishing it off. The last of the Shades die as well, and then I look at the rift above. All around me dozens of soldiers watch, waiting in hopeful expectation. Most have heard of this. None have seen.

I reach out and let the Mark and rift connect. The fire starts burning, the beam of green light connecting me to the hole in the world, and I fight to mend it. My jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed, sword tightly grasped in my free hand until finally I wrench my hand back and the rift closes with a tiny explosion of black goo and green light. The soldiers are silent as I lower myself to one knee, sword braced against the ground.

I breathe hard and slow, in and out, keeping my calm as best I can. The pain was worse that time, much worse. The nearness of the Breach likely didn't help matters much, and now I have to close it. I don't want to imagine the pain that will take.

Then, my reflection is broken as the soldiers begin to cheer. A sword is thrust into the air, then another, men and women shouting in celebration of this victory. Their elation fuels me, and I stand with a faint smile as the sheer exuberation they display washes over me. I've saved them, some of them at least. Next…

I point my sword to the Breach, so enormous in the sky above me, and then begin walking towards the Temple's heart. Varric and Solas fall in behind me as the soldiers part, making way for their makeshift hero and his band of misfits. Lavellan joins after a moment, her sword nimbly twirling in her hands before sliding back into the sheath.

Cassandra approaches me as I walk, with Leliana to her back.

"That was foolish, Sir Venier." Leliana scolds me, but I shake my head.

"Commander Cullen and his men needed our aid." I reply. "And the rift needed to be sealed. I don't want people dying for me. That's my job."

Leliana frowns at my choice of words, before looking over to Cassandra, who thinks for a moment before nodding.

"He is right." she agrees, and I stiffen up with surprise, looking at her as well. "The Breach will not go anywhere, and the more rifts we seal, the less demons that are likely to ambush us as he attempts to close it."

"The amount of energy coming from the Breach as it is sealed will attract all manner of powerful spirits." Solas adds, moving up to match our speed. "The Breach will corrupt them, make them demons, and they will be just as strong without their sanity. The less rifts we give them to fall through, the less that can lose themselves before the Breach is closed."

Leliana huffs at their interruptions, but after a moment's pondering she nods once.

"I see." She frowns again, looking up at the sky. "I will have my men take up positions around the temple, to handle these demons as they come."

"We're with you, red." the voice of Adaar interjects, her heavy footsteps joining our own, that hammer slung over her shoulder. "Most of the boys don't want to back down after that show the kid gave. We'll manage the monsters up close."

Her grin is toothy and savage, her eyes glimmering with barely subdued delight at the violence. A berserker soul, some part of me warns; I must take care her hammer is turned solely towards our enemies. She may lose herself in the bloodshed, and that hammer would do grave damage indeed.

I nod at her, and she smiles even wider as a dozen or so soldiers of this ragtag army Cullen's made join us, wielding swords and axes ranging from crude to gilded and gleaming. Among them marches a lone Templar, who I recognize after a moment as Lysette, the Orlesian Templar who spends the game being a short infodump on the Order and then listening to her co-worker whine about the Inquisition. It appears as though this time around, she'll be capable of slightly more.

I clench my sword in my hand and look upwards to the Breach one more time. There is a Pride Demon ahead, I remember that much. But how did you beat it? I recall smacking it and dodging attacks a lot. Beyond that...

"Maker…" Cassandra utters the word with horror in her voice as we drop down into the Temple proper, where emaciated corpses cling to themselves and each other, mouths wide in terror and smouldering forms popping and sizzling with internal flame. "How could anyone have survived this?"

"The grace of Andraste…" whispers one soldier, looking at me. "It must be…"

"I don't know." I reply truthfully, shaking my head. "I was thrown into the Fade, then the woman called to me, showed me the path out."

"The woman in gold…" another soldier says, as if she is first remembering what she had seen. "He's right. In the rift, behind him… there was a golden woman."

"Andraste…" I hear the first soldier whisper.

So, I consider. This is where the legend begins.

That whisper spreads through the ranks, and Cassandra seems surprised to hear it. I ignore it as best I can. I have to close the Breach first. Then we can deal with being chosen by Andraste or not.

As we round the corner to walk down the trail towards the crater, something begins to hum inside me, and my teeth begin to itch. I let out a disgruntled groan, and am surprised to hear somebody else utter a similar sound. I glance over my shoulder at Lysette, suddenly leaning against the wall beside her with a hand on her forehead.

"What is that sound?" she asks, her voice cracking with pain. "In my head… Maker, it's so loud…"

I can hear something too, whispering inside my head, voices pricking at my ears and sending shudders down my spine. The Mark flares as we move, but I stop as the voices get louder. Then, without warning, a voice calls out.

"Someone, help me!"

"That is Divine Justinia's voice!" Cassandra declares, her hand unsheathing her sword before she looks at Solas. "What is this?"

"An echo…" he says, shaking his head slowly. "So much power channeled in an instant… it has left a mark in the Fade itself. More than just the Breach… this cut deeper than anything I have seen before, to be audible in the world beyond the Veil."

"Maker, it hurts..." Lysette gasps, and one of the soldiers takes her arm as she staggers again, losing her balance. I too am beginning to feel a weakness in my legs, but I fight back against the strange sensation, forcing myself to walk.

Then it comes into sight, and the whispers turn to screams, my whole body burning as I am illuminated by the crimson light of red lyrium.

"No…" I can hear Varric declare his disbelief, but I am too busy dropping my sword and putting my hands over my ears to try and fend off the sounds. I stagger forward as Lysette did as the voices shout and scream, hungering hating hell-speech that drives a spike of red hot fury into my heart. I want to fight, kill, spill blood…

A hand settles on my shoulder and I feel something soothing fill me, a wisp of blue light travelling down my arm and gently encircling my wrist, holding tight. It is warm, soft, grounding me. It dims the crimson light and dulls the voices, setting a wall between them and I. I can hear them, scratching and screaming, but I ignore them now. Solas takes his hand off my shoulder.

"A Spirit of Calm." he explains. "It was called to the Breach, and then to the disturbance in your mind. I pulled it through the Veil as gently as I could, and sent it to you."

The wisp of blue hums softly against my skin under my sleeve, hidden from view. Solas is already walking away, towards Lysette, eyes closed as he dips into the Fade again. It is a sight to see; his fingertips glow with green, eldritch light like my Mark as he dips them through the Veil, plucking an azure strand like the one on my wrist free of the Fade and gently sets it to Lysette. This one encircles her throat like a necklace of blue light, glowing dimly, and her body shudders as her eyes open.

"Quiet…" she whispers, as if she can't quite believe that the noise is gone. "What… what happened?"

"Red lyrium." Varric declares. "Shit. I guess that's what the unprocessed stuff does to Templars."

"It was… in my head…" I murmur, still on my hands and knees, one hand coming up to press against my forehead. "So loud… I wanted to… I was so angry…"

"Bring forth the sacrifice." A voice booms, one I know to be Corypheus, echoing through the Temple.

I am pulled up to my feet by Cassandra, her hand more gentle than I expected. I lean against her for a moment, catching my balance, and she only lets go when I take a step forward to prove I am able to focus now. The spirit around my wrist, and its twin around Lysette's neck, draw curious and even fearful eyes. Lysette seems too grateful for the quiet to question Solas' actions. I, on the other hand, have the outside knowledge to know that a spirit won't harm me the way a demon will, so long as I don't corrupt it.

"Thank you, little one." I whisper, and the spirit flushes a little warmer against my skin as if in reply to my gratitude.

We continue down the path, the worst of the red lyrium's effects blocked by the kindly creature around my wrist. The voices continue, the standard canonical questions are asked. I don't feign surprise at the voices; Solas' explanation is enough for most of them, and as our soldiers take up their positions Varric repeatedly reminds everybody to stay away from the blatantly evil spikes of crimson crystal jutting from the earth.

Finally, we drop down, and I behold myself interrupting Corypheus' ritual. Or rather, Markus as he was before we became one. He surges forward, sword in hand, his Fade reflection a shadow glowing in the dark, before the vision vanishes. Cassandra stares. They all stare. I swallow back my regret and step forward.

"You must activate the Breach to begin sealing it." Solas warns, as he leaps down beside me, his staff firmly grasped in both hands. "Channel the power of the Mark into it. That will awaken it. Once it is open, only then can it be properly closed."

I step closer now, and raise my hand. The Spirit of Calm thrums warmly against my skin, a comforting feeling as I push the Mark towards the rift at the base of the Breach. A beam of light connects the two, and I feel the pain again, but muted now, made softer by the spirit. It heats up more, taking the pain. It is Calm. And thereby, so am I.

The Breach flares, and the rift opens and out steps a monster.

It is a giant thing, twice the height of a man with a foot or so to spare. But it is not the Pride Demon I know from the game. This thing is tall and narrow, no hulking monster but an almost resplendent creature with a mask of gold in the shape of a beautiful woman's face. Its shape is more feminine than masculine, but there is a touch of androgyny in it, the thinness of the waist tapering to wider hips but the chest flat and angular, a swan-like neck rising to that golden mask and two slender arms stretching out to the sides.

It is clad in purest white, thin and breezy garments like the loose robes of a mage of another world, a collar of golden fur like the pelt of a lion about its neck. It does not touch the ground, its feet thin and blade-like; it simply hovers above. I stare at it, and it stares back at me.

"You meddle with affairs beyond you." it declares, its voice one of authority and purpose. "The Elder One surpasses you with every motion, as do I. You are not worthy of that which you have stolen."

"Pride…" Solas whispers, before his voice rises to a warning shout. "Be wary!"

"A fickle name." the demon says, looking at him now. "Ill-fitting and meagre. I am more than Pride, little elf. I am Absolute, the sum of all, above and beyond."

"A demon of delusional grandeur…" Varric mutters, cocking his crossbow. "Now I've seen everything."

"Silence."

The demon raises a hand as arrows begin to fly, Leliana's command to fire silent. None touch it; they are halted in the air by a wash of light that is so nearly golden, but instead is sickly and yellow. The demon gestures, a single motion of a delicate wrist, and the arrows fall.

"You cannot kill me." It almost scoffs. "More than you could ever imagine yourselves being… I am a god, you childish things. How can you kill a god?"

A surge of energy explodes from the mark as I reach out, touching the rift behind it. The demon floats back, away from that beam of light that so ruthlessly denies it. Arrows once more fly and once more it dismisses them, observing with eyes that cannot be seen behind the mask as I touch the Fade with the Mark.

"Observe." I say, before wrenching back my hand.

The rift is disrupted, spitting verdant sparks everywhere around it… and Absolute, as it has named itself, is staggered in the air. The third volley of arrows fly, and this time they find purchase in flesh like ivory, tearing holes in its elegant garb and drawing pale blue blood from its wounds. It lets out a sound of pain as it flails suddenly, graceful even in panic, and I point my sword and shout a single word.

"Andraste!" I cry, and I rush Absolute with my blade raised high.

Behind me, the soldiers join the charge and the shout, crying the name of their prophet and saviour as one. Lysette calls out too, but her words are a Litany of Rebuke; a chant I join her in speaking, our voices becoming one. She moves beside me, sword and shield in hand, and I spare for her a single glance before we enter battle with the demon.

Absolute recovers from its shock in time to summon a weapon, light forming a long, thin blade of some pale metal. It blocks my first blow, dismissively batting it aside, before Lysette brings her own sword around in a wicked arcing cut. Absolute moves to deflect that as well, but the Litany reaches a fever pitch as Lysette and I shout it as one, and the demon's sword moves just a touch too slow, Lysette's strike finding purchase in the not-flesh of its calf. The cut is deep, and I am to make it a twin with my own sword, but Absolute cries out in frustration and throws itself backward in a flurry of cloth and motion.

More arrows fire, and some find their purchase in the demon's flesh. Solas flings bolts of ice at the creature, a patina of frost building around its sword arm as his precise fire falls upon it. Varric peppers its chest with bolts, Bianca flinging one missile after another with cruel accuracy. Lysette and I chase the demon, charging after it and forcing it to flee us into the path of the arrows and bolts.

"Strike the bell the fourth time, and let His mercy fall." Lysette and I call to the creature, almost taunting it with our voices. "A gift of sweet surrender freely given to us all!"

Absolute wails in frustration, its body tensing. I am spared a single moment to shout a warning to all around us before a surge of power leaves the demon, sending Lysette and I flying. The other soldiers are also thrown from their feet, bowling one another over and crashing to the earth. I hit the ground hard, sword clattering on the fused black stone a few feet away. My Mark hums with power, and I spare the rift a passing glance. It is returned to its former stability. This is something I must rectify.

The demon is displeased, a hand extending and pulling an archer from her perch, before that pale sword thrusts forward and impales her. I hear Varric cry out in anger, before a bolt unlike his last few strikes Absolute's shoulder. The demon checks the wound and freezes, before the bolt explodes and it is knocked off balance itself.

I reach for the rift and let the pain fill my arm. It is like dunking my hand in molten metal by now, the relief of the Spirit of Calm having faded some time ago. The little thing still clings to my arm, helping however it can. Green touches green and I scream to the sky as I once more tear my hand away, the rift pulsing as it shrinks.

Absolute rushes me, those robes flapping in the wind. I bring my sword up and narrowly deflect a thrust aimed for my throat, before a foot that is itself a blade lashes out and cuts me across the cheek. I gasp in pain, before Lysette shouts a line from the Litany of Dominion and I feel new strength fill me. Her sword glows more brightly than mine as she rushes forward; no doubt she took lyrium, and recently. Absolute twists to catch her sword, giving me an opening. I stab upwards with both hands on my sword, and thrust clean into the small of Absolute's narrow back, letting the demon scream in agony as I begin to chant the Litany of Forbiddance.

My sword glows with holy light, dimmer than normal but still burning the not-flesh of the demon it is buried in. Absolute twists, and the hilt is ripped from my grasp before I throw myself away from that pale sword it wields. The demon's dismissive calm is gone now, its anger clear to us all. Absolute has reached a state of absolute fury. I would laugh if it wasn't so damn scary.

"You are nothing!" the demon screams. "Pretender! False one! Liar! I am Absolute! I am that which is above, that which is beyond! You! Are! Nothing!"

I am forced to duck and dive and throw myself away from each attack, as Lysette chases after the demon to return to our prior efforts. An Inquisition soldier charges before she can reach it, however, a cry on his lips.

"For the Herald!" he shouts, before burying an axe in Absolute's thigh.

The demon screeches in fury, but I shove the soldier away so that its retaliatory strike cuts only a narrow gash across the backs of my shoulders, before I turn and reach out once more with the Mark. Once more it dodges away from the beam of green, and I touch the rift and let the power flow, screaming in pain and terror and anger at the sheer audacity of this stupid demon to interrupt what is meant to be an easy tutorial boss.

"NO!" Absolute surges forward, sword raised to strike my arm off completely.

Before the blow can fall, I hear the clash of metal on metal, and glance to my side just in time to witness Lavellan twisting the demon's sword away with her own reverse stroke, the attack turning into a thrust without so much as a moment to shift stance, burying that strange elven greatsword deep in the demon's chest.

" _Ra is ma ehn is banal_ …" she says in Elven, ripping the sword free as Absolute dies thrashing at its end. " _Dara in atish_ …"

Absolute fades into nothingness, the last broken remains of its body falling away into the rift. That seems to weaken it, and I let out a final cry as the Breach surges again. It is rebelling against my efforts to close it, rejecting my power. My hand is in agony. My voice cracks and goes silent, my scream nothing more than a weak exhale of breath. I drop to my knees, my free hand clutching at the elbow of my left arm, holding tight, willing the pain to end.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, the rift surges one last time, the Breach pulsing and contracting into itself. The feedback from the forced stabilization throws me back, and I crash gratefully to the ground where the dark can begin to take me.

Solas stands over me, Lavellan opposite him. But it is Cassandra who drops down to one knee and shouts for a healer, taking my hand in her own and demanding I stay awake. I can only murmur an apology as the world goes black.

End Chapter the Second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out quicker than I expected, courtesy of some mood music and a heavy hit of inspiration. I would love to promise a consistent upload schedule. 
> 
> And this time, I will. One a week. Maybe more. But at least one chapter a week. It’s about time I started holding myself accountable for these projects, and this is the one I feel the most confident about. 
> 
> Thank you for the first few bookmarks and kudos. It means a lot. Don’t be afraid to comment, but I won’t beg. Just consider it. Feedback makes me happy, after all. 
> 
> See y’all by next week.


	3. Dreams of Nothing and Nobody

The world is green and black once more when I wake. My eyes flicker open to see a boundless sky above me, black and green entangled with one another in a vast spiral. For a moment I am reminded of the Breach, but I blink again and look around me. The ground here is stone, grey and cold, but when I touch a hand to the surface it warms instantly. There are things about, here and there; a desk, set with countless papers stacked a foot high. A bed, newly made with sheets folded to perfection. A bottle of some liquor lay alone on the pillow, crimson red within dark glass. 

I stand. My body feels lighter than air as I look around, my feet barely touching the ground. Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? Why would the afterlife look so much like the Fade? Unless… am I a ghost? A spirit, or even a demon? I look down at myself. Two arms, two legs. I am wearing only a pair of loose brown trousers. Oh cool, I have a six pack. That’s new, though not to Markus. I don’t look like a demon… or at the very least, I don’t look like a very interesting demon. Are there demons of boredom?

I turn around and look at a window, floating in the air as if set in an invisible wall. It shows me a very different landscape from the endless plain of grey stone beyond it; through the opening I behold mountains, looming high in a dark sky and spewing volcanic fumes high into the air, glowing a soft orange as streams of lava descend their sides. I step towards the window, but there is not heat emitting from the vista beyond. I peer around the side, head passing through the space where there ought to be a wall.

On the other side, the window shows me something different. Waves crash against tall pillars of jagged stone, a cruel coastline somewhere far away from those fiery mountains. A bird flies through the spray, feathers a brilliant white with a crest of yellow on its head as it swoops right past the window. I could almost reach out and touch it....

“I wish you wouldn’t.” a voice says, a kindly voice, soft and small like that of a child. “It would be… not good, to be pulled into a different dream so soon.”

I turn, and see behind me a thing. A familiar thing, a ball of blue light with a contrail of wispy smoke following its every motion. It bobs up and down gently, observing me, but when it speaks again it glows.

“This dream is your dream.” it explains, as if hearing the confusion in my mind. “It is the dwarf with one eye who dreams of home, her heart aching for the scent of salt. The mountains of fire belong to the warrior who is not, stories of distant lands told to her by a father who is not. All of them are what they are not. It is how they live.”

The spirit’s voice is blank without being taciturn, solemn without being dour. I am uncertain of its identity for only a moment.

“You’re the Spirit of Calm.” I note, blinking once. “The one Solas pulled from the Fade to help me.”

“The elf who needs a hat saw me seeing you, sensing your unsettlement.” it explains. “He pulled and plucked and let me through. But it was the blood in your blood that gave me shape. It tasted like lightning.”

“The blood in my blood?” I shake my head, confused again. “What are you referring to exactly?”

“The blood of the mountains,” the spirit says. “The dwarves dig it free, that which they can, because it gives them wealth and power to do so. They give it to you who live above, men and elves, and you drink and breathe it, make it part of you. It makes you better, and makes me real.”

“Blood of the…” I pause. “Lyrium?”

“Is that the name men use?” it asks, and when I nod it bobs up and down as if to mimic me. “The lyrium inside you feeds me. Makes me real. I couldn’t speak before. But the lyrium makes me real, and the key makes you real to me.”

Now there’s a key, but when I think about the word for a moment, I glance down at my left hand. The mark is still there, humming softly with power, glowing that dim green, but it doesn’t hurt. I barely even notice it unless I stare directly at it. 

“Is the Mark the key?” I ask, and the spirit bobs up and down again. 

“The old one opened doors, too many, but the key closes them, it makes them no longer real.” it replies. “But it makes you real to us, because it is a part of our side, now inside you.”

“So I’m more… real, inside the Fade?” I stare at the Mark for a long moment, and the spirit floats closer to it.

“Yes.” The little ball of blue nudges my palm, and the Mark tingles slightly at the contact, like an itch under my skin that fades quickly. “I saw you because of it, and then the elf who needs a hat saw me. He sent me to you, and I made you Calm like me.”

“Thank you for that.” I smile at the spirit, and it glows a little brighter.

“Being thanked feels nice.” it notes. “On the other side I am still around your arm. The woman with angry eyes does not like that. She tries to make me go away. But the key and mountain’s blood let me stay. Should I go?”

I shake my head.

“You’re more than welcome to stay.” I declare, reaching to touch it as if patting its head. “But if you stay, I don’t think I can keep calling you “spirit”. It would be rude.”

“I would get a name?” it asks, a hint of excitement in its stoic voice, and I chuckle.

“Of course.” I put a finger against my chin then, thinking. “But what should we name you?”

“You remember names.” it says suddenly, floating upwards, higher and higher. “But they are not here, not where memories are meant to be. You remember so little that this place can reflect. Why?”

I pause, looking around. It isn’t wrong. I have two… admittedly short, lifetimes’ worth of memories to recall. Why wouldn’t they have an effect on the Fade? This place should be full of memories of Marcus’ world, of school and games and books. And where are Markus’ memories, the Order, his training, learning and growing? Why aren’t we reflected here, as we are meant to be?

“Beck.” I say, testing a name, the first that springs to mind. 

Nothing comes forth. No girl with perpetually half-lidded eyes and a serene smile on her face as she sits in the front corner of the room, hands folded beneath her chin. The spirit circles around me, peering at me with eyes that I can’t see, examining my expression.

“That’s a good name.” it says, bobbing up and down a little. “Can I be Beck?”

Beck. Rebecca, but she didn’t want people to call her the same name they called her mother. So she was Becca, or just Beck to me. And now… the spirit brushes my arm, rousing me from my thoughts, and I nod.

“Beck.” I repeat, before running a finger along its top. “Beck is a good name. You can be Beck, if you’d like.”

“I would.” Beck declares, before pressing itself against my palm. “Beck. Beck. Beck Beck Beck. It’s short and quick and rhymes with neck. I like being Beck.”

“And I like being able to call you by your name.” I reply, petting Beck again. “When I wake up, you’ll still be there?”

“Yes.” Beck nods with that little bounce in the air, and I smile, relieved. “I won’t let the key hurt any more. That would be good.”

“It would.” I agree, before looking around the blankness of the Fade. “I suppose we’ll have to find something to pass the time until I wake.” 

“No.” Beck spins a little in place, and I realize after a second’s confusion that it is meant to be a shake of the head. “You can wake up if you want. You just need to go to sleep.”

I stare at it for a moment, and the little spirit helpfully floats past me, toward the bed behind me.

“The bed is you.” it explains. “The part of you that connects you to here. You go into the bed and you, the part of you that can come here, goes back to your side. You wake up on that side while asleep here. And when you sleep there, you wake up here. I can go when I want, but you have to be in yourself to do that.”

I stare at the spirit of calm for a moment, before looking at the bed. It was a stream of jargon, what it just said, but I think I grasp the basics. Or at least… my take on the basics. So I walk to the bed and climb in, moving the bottle over. That itself prompts a question.

“Wait… so the bed is me?” I ask, and Beck bobs up and down again. “So… what’s in the bottle?”

“Wine.” Beck replies. “It’s good, I think.”

I hold the bottle in my hand for a moment, and then shake my head, before laying down. I sleep on my side usually, knees pulled up towards my chest. I take that position, the sinfully soft pillow under my head, and close my eyes.

Then I open them, and am somewhere else.

I know this room like the back of my hand. This is the scene. That scene. With the elf who drops a box, runs off to talk to Cassandra and vanishes into thin air afterwards. I see her approaching me, box in hand, before realizing I’m awake and panicking, dropping it on the floor. Its loud.

“Ah!”

Her alarm is just as loud, as she staggers and falls backwards in surprise. I watch as she tumbles onto her backside, wincing a little as she gets up onto her feet again with nervous, jerky movements. She’s a tiny thing, a little shorter than me and much skinnier, almost alarmingly so. Her eyes are a deep brown, her hair an auburn shade that is both red and brown at once. Her expression is one of terror, however.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry…” Her voice is flighty, afraid. “I-I’ll clean it up right away I-I swear…”

“Please, be calm…” I say, raising a hand, voice dry and croaking. “There’s no need to panic. It’s a small mess, easily managed.”

“My fault your grace, I’m so very sorry…” she says, before dropping down to her knees and prostrating herself, pressing her face against the floorboards. “I am unworthy, your grace.”

It’s an unsettling thing, having someone bow to you as they would in the presence of a god. She trembles where she kneels, barefoot and afraid, and I swallow back my nerves.

“Please… look at me.” I ask, and hesitantly she raises her head, peering at me with eyes stick wide in reverence and fear alike. “Would you do me the honour of sharing your name?”

“Sh-Shanna, i-if it pleases your grace…” she stammers. “B-but y-y-you can call me whatever you-you please, your grace.”

“Shanna.” I say the name slowly, as if trying it out, and smile. “A good name. A simple name. A kind name. Shanna, why are you bowing to me?”

“B-because you are Her Herald, your grace… I-I am unworthy…” she explains, pressing her face to the ground again. 

“Shanna, please don’t do that.” I say. “I am not the Maker. You don’t need to bow to me.”

She looks up again, once more hesitant. She is afraid of me, and it isn’t just awe that brings about that fear. I extend a hand towards her, as if offering to help her up, but she stares at it as if I’m offering her a bar of solid gold, her own hands shivering.

“I-I should not…” she stammers. “I-I am but a lowly servant, unworthy…”

“What makes you unworthy, Shanna?” I ask, though I worry about the answer.

“I-I am a sinful thing, foolish and-and disobedient…” she murmurs, and I shake my head slowly.

“The same could be said of all the righteous, and then no one would be worthy.” I reply, before leaning forward to take her hand in mine, feeling how it shakes in my grip. “Please, Shanna. I’m still rather stiff from the fight at the Breach. Will you help me?”

I don’t want to play this world’s dumb games of race and righteousness. Elves, dwarves, humans, even Qunari; I’ll need all of them if I’m going to win the war that’s coming. I can’t afford to have the Inquisition divided along preconceived lines of racial tension. It’s time to break a few barriers; and this will be the first.

“You are the one who was entrusted to watch over me.” I continue, squeezing her hand gently, as reassuring as I can be. “If Seeker Pentaghast and Lady Leliana trusted you with this, then I trust them as well.”

“The Lady Seeker…” Shanna says suddenly, her eyes going wide. “Sh-she wanted to know when you woke. At once, she said.”

“Take me to her.” I ask, standing and immediately regretting it as my legs begin to tremble, and I nearly join Shanna on the floor, instead falling back into the bed. “Please.”

She stands, realizing that I won’t be going anywhere any time soon without her. She’s weak, but just a little help is enough to keep me on my feet. I lean against her, just a little, and she suffers my weight without complaint. I do keep hold of her hand though, in hopes it will ground her just a little.

A part of me wonders if I shouldn’t be freaking out a little more, now that the danger is passed. I mean… this is still weird, right? I’m in a world that’s meant to be fiction. There is an actual elf helping me walk out of a small house on a mountainside, in a town that thinks I’m the chosen one. This is all really strange.

But then I feel a warm hum against my wrist, and remember Beck. Of course. A Spirit of Calm would help me deal with the madness of this new reality of mine. Beck squeezes a little tighter around my wrist and I chuckle, before looking at a confused Shanna.

“Just remembering a friend.” I explain.

She takes that in stride, about as well as she’s been taking everything else. We reach the front door and she hesitates when the sound of voices from outside becomes audible. I squeeze her hand, and she swallows back her fear before opening the door.

There are a lot of people outside. Nobles wearing the finest regalia, Orlesians in masks and Fereldan in heavy furs. I see Templars here and there, mages too, keeping distance between themselves as would be expected. Peasants both local and foreign. Soldiers of the Inquisition, weapons sheathed or hung from belts, though two warriors in heavy plate armour stand outside the front door, greatswords braced point-first against the snowy ground. Both watch as Shanna helps me outside.

My presence silences the crowd immediately. Men and women go silent, the hush spreading like a virus, tense quiet filling the air. I watch as they watch me, staring back at them while they observe. Then, one man falls to one knee; a soldier, with a freckled face and a heavy brow. Another drops down beside him, then another. Mostly soldiers, and a few peasants. Here and there a noble bows their head, a Templar salutes me, a mage nods respectfully. 

The legend of the Herald has spread, it seems, but it has not yet been cemented as standard. Good. I don’t want to be idolized. That leads to all manner of bad things if one isn’t careful, and as careful as I intend to be it’s nice to have a bit of leeway. The good thing is, the crowd is so enraptured with me, most seem to overlook poor shaking Shanna completely. The crowd clears a path for me, and I know where I must go. The Chantry, and the founding of the Inquisition… both await me up the hill. 

Shanna is a godsend. Er… Maker-send. Without her, I’d probably topple over in the snow and make a rather impressive embarrassment of myself in front of countless judging eyes. Instead I hobble along, humbled by the Breach, but not beaten. For a moment I look to the sky above me. The Breach still looms. It too has been humbled, it seems. But I will close it soon enough. I just need the Templars. Or the Mages.

I’m not looking forward to that particular choice, in all honesty. 

Shanna and I make our way up the steps to the second level of Haven, past Varric’s campfire and the admiring eyes of a dozen Templars. They all salute me as one, and I come to a halt to return the favour, clapping my fist to my chest and bowing my head. I see Lysette among them, Knight-Captain Rylen as well. So they both made it out of the Temple. Good to see. 

Around to the Chantry, up the snowy escarpment. It’s been cleared, recently too, something I’m grateful for. I see a crowd by the doors of the Chantry itself; men and women in robes of red and white, and a familiar figure with a heavy fur mantle and plate mail on his arms. Their voices are loud, and growing louder as we approach.

“Whether he is Herald or not, Sir Venier is not fit for travel to Val Royeaux.” Cullen declares, his voice filled with a fire you don’t usually expect from the calm commander. “You cannot drag him there for trial until he has recovered. Or has the Chantry chosen to disregard the accused’s right to medical care before judgement?”

“I must agree with the Knight-Commander.” I hear the familiar, scratchy voice of Chancellor Roderick argue, and I come to a full stop for a moment. “When we met on the mountain, Sir Venier was insistent that he close the Breach. I do not believe him guilty of any crime.”

So, I have the Chancellor's support. That’s surprisingly comforting to know. Shanna hesitates at the sight of all those figures of authority, but once again I pull her forward, holding her hand a little tighter. 

“It’s okay.” I murmur. “If they’re angry at anybody, it’ll be me. Don’t worry.”

I smile for her, and she seems to take strength in that. She’s an odd one, Shanna. I think I might keep an eye on her, if only to figure out just what has her so afraid of me, and the world around her. It can’t just be a flighty personality. She was terrified a few minutes ago. That’s not a sign of anything good.

“Knight-Commander.” I greet Cullen first as we approach, bowing my head. “Chancellor Roderick.”

“And here he is.” Cullen says, sounding almost a little annoyed that I’m finally here. “Esteemed Sisters and Mothers of the Chantry, Sir Markus Venier, also known as the Herald of Andraste.”

Shanna trembles again, violently, when the assembled Chantry folk look at us. Chancellor Roderick’s eyes immediately flick to my Mark, then the elf holding me up. The others, an assembly of priestesses and acolytes, all women, eye me up with expressions ranging from curiosity to disdain. Shanna earns only the latter, and a tiny whimper of fear escapes her. 

“It’s alright…” I whisper, before bowing my head to the women in robes. “An honour, mothers and sisters.”

“One could mistake it for such.” one older woman speaks, her expression sour as they come. “Markus Venier… which Circle did you serve in before the Conclave?”

“Chanson, in the Dales.” I reply. “Under Knight-Captain Sarker.” 

“Ah, I have not heard of the Chanson Circle…” another woman interjects, one of the disdainful ones. “A smaller Circle, I would suppose?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I was trained there.”

“And Venier…” a third woman rubs her chin. “A peasant name?”

“Descended from a Marquis in Val Firmin, but my mother was an Enchanter of the Montsimmard Circle.” I say, a little surprised at my own words. “I was sent to Chanson for training when I did not display any magical talent of my own.” 

Commander Cullen watches with a curious expression as I explain myself, and when I admit my parentage he almost seems to choke on something. I suppose an admission of that sort of thing is frowned upon.

“How… unique.” the eldest of the assembled clergy notes, frowning at me. “So, we are expected to believe a bastard born of a mage was chosen by Andraste to lead us all?”

“I make no claims to divinity.” I shake my head, holding up my marked hand for them to see. “I was saved from certain death. Whether this was an act of providence or fickle luck, I have no idea. But I know what I can do.”

I point then to the Breach, my hand flaring with green light for an unintentionally dramatic effect. I feel Beck slide further up my arm to hide from their eyes as my sleeve also rides up my arm.

“The Breach is halted in its expansion, and this Mark is the cause.” I explain. “And this I know; when I was lost in the Fade, after the explosion, it was a figure of gold who guided me to safety, who showed me how to use the Mark to free myself of that place. She spoke with a voice like that which I have never heard before, and at her words demons trembled and fled.”

“He walked from the Fade,” I hear a Templar agree from behind me, Lysette. Her voice is strong, clear, the Spirit of Calm still glowing about her neck. “It was seen. I fought by his side against a Demon of Pride, bled with him.” 

“The words of a few addled peasant conscripts and one Templar cast-off are hardly worthy evidence.” the Chantry Mother rebukes, scoffing at her words. “Were Andraste to choose anybody, it would be a worthy Herald, not this boy. To claim otherwise is heresy.”

That word brings silence to our surroundings. Even a few of the younger Chantry clerics are shocked by the declaration. Chancellor Roderick is stunned, mouth agape. But the Templars, Lysette and the rest, are incensed.

“The Order has fought in Her name for centuries!” one of them shouts, stepping forward with his hands curled into fists. “Who is more worthy than a Templar?”

“Perhaps Sir Venier was chosen because Andraste knew a Cleric would be too busy cowering behind books and Chantry walls to do what needed to be done!” another agrees, standing beside his brother.

“Call it heresy all you like,” Lysette declares. “I know what I saw in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Sir Venier took a blow meant for me, dealt by a demon more powerful than any I had ever seen before. Then he suffered to seal the Breach, while you all cowered here in Haven. If Andraste has chosen a Herald, I pray it is he.”

“You lot would make for miserable replacements.” Knight-Captain Rylen scoffs, looking at the Clerics before turning his eyes to me. “I’ve known Venerable Sarker for years, brother. He’s a good judge of character. If he chose you to come to the Conclave, I’ll take his word over that of a bunch of clucking hens too busy pissing themselves to take up arms against demons.”

The Chantry Mother is utterly shocked by this show of solidarity, though not as much as I am. I’ve never known this sort of loyalty before; to have men and women I’ve never truly met stand up for me, declare themselves my brothers and sisters… I can understand now the appeal of an organization like the Templars better now, I think. I bow my head to Rylen, who grins.

“You Templars truly have lost your way, speaking to us in such a way,” one of the other clerics interjects, her disgust plain in her expression. “We are clerics of the Chantry, your superiors, need I remind you…”

“And he’s our brother.” Lysette retorts. “You call him a bastard, a heretic, but he has done more for the people of Thedas than all of you together. And you would put him on trial for his heroism?”

“It is clear we Templars are not the ones who have lost our way.” Rylen declares, with a voice like ice. It softens when he speaks to me next. “Sir Venier, you honour the Order with your deeds. It is an honour to call you our brother.”

“And you honour me more than I deserve.” I reply, bowing my head. “Any Templar would have done the same.”

Rylen chuckles at that.

“I can name many would would not.” he replies, rueful. “But that is beside the point. Whatever comes next, we will stand with you.”

“Thank you.” I salute him, and he salute me as well, the other Templars joining him. 

The Clerics depart when the Templars do, going the other ways. It occurs to me that their path will take them right past Solas, and I chuckle at the thought of them ignoring the elf apostate who had also done more to save Thedas then they.

“My apologies, Sir Venier.” Chancellor Roderick says, as we walk into the Chantry, Cullen throwing the doors open for us. “I tried to explain your valour on the mountain, but the Chantry is quite afraid of this Herald of Andraste business.”

“It’s an understandable fear.” I agree. “The Chantry has lost much this last year. The mere thought of Andraste sending a Herald to the world must have the elder mothers in quite a panic.”

Roderick restrains a chuckle, and I marvel at the sight of everybody’s favourite person to hate acting like a human being. 

“That is an understatement, Sir Venier.” he agrees. “But… after this coming business is complete, would you be so kind as to speak with me in private? I have questions… and an offer to make. Advice, nothing more.”

I nod. Chancellor Roderick not being antagonistic is one thing. The thought of him being friendly is quite intriguing indeed, and advice is something I think I’ll sorely need. Things are a lot more complex when people aren’t bound by basic code and algorithms. Shanna, still helping me along, is a good example of that.

Roderick takes his leave with a final bow, and the traditional “Andraste be with you” which I return. Cullen instead leads me to the door at the end of the Chantry’s hall, where two of the heavily armoured Inquisition soldiers stand guard. I nod to them, and both salute Cullen and, quite possibly, myself. The door opens with a push and we step inside, to see the familiar faces of Leliana, Josephine Montilyet and Cassandra all awaiting us. It never quite occurred to me how many women were involved in the founding of the Inquisition until now, actually. 

“Sir Venier.” Cassandra nods to me and I return the gesture, before she sees Shanna under my arm and frowns. Before she can speak, however, I raise a hand to halt her.

“I begged Shanna to bring me to you.” I say. “And it’s good fortune I did. The Chantry are apparently quite frazzled by the title the people have bestowed upon me.”

“Herald of Andraste…” Leliana murmurs. “They are a strong thing, those words.”

“I hope to bear them well.” I lean against the table, taking my weight off of a grateful Shanna. “But I trust all of us are gathered here for a reason beyond my supposed higher calling?”

Cassandra frowns at my words, and I remember too late that she’s one of the “you’re chosen and that’s final” types. It’s a good thing I’m okay with being chosen, or we might have a problem. I smile at her.

“A jest, Seeker Cassandra.”

She watches me for a moment longer, before reaching beneath our little war table and grabbing a very familiar book. Large and heavy, bound in leather and iron with a steel symbol emblazoned on the cover; a flaming eye over a sword, shining like the sun.

“You all know what this is.” she declares, before looking at me. “Except you, Sir Venier. It is a writ from Divine Justinia, giving us the authority to act. As of this day, I declare the Inquisition re-founded.”

The tension in the room is almost audible, the air stretched to the point of tearing. Cullen swallows back his nerves, clenching his fists and steadying himself. Leliana leans forward, all elegance and ease to hide the worry within. And Josephine already starts to scrawl on that clipboard of hers, recording the moment for future tense. 

I stare at the book, and then look up at Cassandra.

“I would be honoured to be the first to join a re-founded Inquisition.” I declare, placing my marked hand on the book’s cover. 

“And we would be honoured to have you, Herald.” Cullen declares, bowing his head a moment. “With you at our side, many Templars who survived the Conclave will also take up a new oath.”

“Though there are mages who may falter, with two former Templars as part of the inner circle.” Leliana replies, already the opposing viewpoint.

Cullen, to my surprise, chuckles.

“I’ve already found a remedy for that.” he states. “I’ve taken a mage as my second. You all may remember her from the forward camp on the mountain. Sergeant Adaar is now Captain Adaar.”

Wait, I think. Mage? But she was using a hammer! Or… was the hammer secretly a staff.

“If we are announcing our choices for immediate subordinates, I suppose I should declare Scout Lavellan as my head agent.” Leliana replies, placing a finger on her table. “I have her investigating a potential lead in the Hinterlands, a source of horses for the Inquisition.”

“And I will be aiding Lady Montilyet in her ambassadorial endeavours, though I hope and pray mine is a more… active role.”

I freeze. That’s another voice I know, though I should hardly be surprised. From the shadows come footsteps, Leliana rolling her eyes at the theatre as a man in a leather coat with tails that trail down to the backs of his knees steps into the open, arms spread wide in greeting. He has the look of a scoundrel about him, dark blonde hair cut close to the scalp in jagged waves and blue eyes glinting with mischief. His skin is well tanned, giving him an oddly California-surfer aesthetic. The animal fang dangling from a piercing in his left ear certainly helps.

“Ah yes,” Josephine sighs. “The esteemed Charles Edward Trevelyan, heir apparent to the House Trevelyan in Ostwick.”

“She forgot to mention the part where I’m the Second Blade of the Bann, but I’m certain that won’t be of much importance.” Trevelyan declares, before bowing at the waist, one hand folded in front of his stomach. “A pleasure to meet you all, particularly the Herald.”

He winks at me, and chuckles when I’m not sure how to react.

Cassandra groans, and Trevelyan wisely withdraws from the room, his introductions finished. I watch him go, amused, before looking back to the war council that is not yet a war council. Beside me, Shanna has a dazed look in her eye, and I smile. Poor girl’s smitten already, though given Lord Trevelyan’s flair I’m hardly surprised.

“Well, that was odd.” Cullen neatly sums up all our feelings in a four words, before placing his hand down on the table, picking up a small metal pin with a clenched fist engraved as its head. “Herald, allow me be to be the first to say; welcome to the Inquisition.”

“Honoured, commander.” I nod. “Now… where do we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, I know, but this was more of a wrap-up for the first arc of our tale. Now that we’ve moved beyond the most scripted part of our story, allow me to warn you all; this tale will diverge from canon, and heavily, at multiple points. Character introductions, major characters deaths, events occuring out of order and numerous people, places and things that weren’t in the game will be appearing here. Why?
> 
> Because if you all wanted a repetition of Dragon Age Inquisition, I imagine you’d play the game. That’s not what I want to write and I feel that isn’t what you want to read. As such, here we are. 
> 
> Thank you for your support, and have a lovely day.


	4. Haven for the Wayward

It is a different Haven that greets me when I step out of the Chantry hours later. The Inquisition is born. I am the Herald. The sky is torn asunder. And yet the world keeps on turning, and people continue to complain to the put-upon Quartermaster Threnn about the need for supplies she does not have. I speak to her briefly, getting the word on requisitions and how they work. Fetch quests, basically, and never ending ones at that.

Todd would be proud.

Next stop is to my left and along a narrow road. It’s wider here, and the buildings more plentiful. Haven is larger when not constrained by storage size limits, and the people are far more plentiful. I count fifty heads by the time I reach the apothecary’s hut, thankfully easily identified by the crates of dried herbs strewn about the front door.

“Don’t bother knocking, no one ever does.” the older man stood at the workbench calls, before returning his attention to the mortar and pestle in his hands. “If you’ve got deliveries, I’ll sign for them in a moment. If it’s another request, put it in the stack.”

The requests stack is slightly higher than my knee is from my ankle, which very nearly triggers a fight or flight response in me, invoking memories both of Knight-Captain Sarker’s desk and my homework folder in my bedroom. 

“I’m afraid I’m not here with anything.” I declare, and the old man turns to stare at me for a long moment, before frowning. 

“Ah.” he grunts, before turning back to his work. “The Herald. If you don’t mind taking requests, I could use a few miracles right now.”

“I’m afraid there’s a waiting list for miracles,” I reply. “Shall I try to slot you between curing a man’s blindness and blessing a barren womb with child?”

The old bastard nearly laughs at that, though it fails to quite break through his thick layers of dogged crankiness. He stares at me for a moment, before turning back to his work.

“Name’s Adan.” he declares, click-clacking away with the mortar and pestle once more. “I’m the sorry bastard Cassandra has brewing any and all potions and elixirs this “Inquisition” of ours might need… regardless of whether or not I’ve been supplied any of the necessary resources to actually, well, do that.”

His frustration is plain in his voice, his grinding with the tools growing more rough for a moment as he pounds the pestle against whatever material it is he’s crushing.

“I’ll try not to place any additional burden upon your shoulders, then.” I say.

“It’s not my shoulders you should be worried about, Herald.” He puts a special emphasis on the last word. “I’ve just got to brew potions until my eyes bleed. It’s up to you to save the bloody world.”

Well… he isn’t wrong. I take my leave with a bow, and he idly nods in reply. Leaving his hut, I take a moment outside the door to breathe. It smelled rather thickly of dead plants in there, like one of those expensive tea-stores in Abbotsford that always gave me a headache to stay in too long. I lean against the wall next to the door and sigh.

Saving the bloody world. It will be a trial, won’t it? Mages and Templars both gone mad with power, Chantry clerics seeking influence and authority wherever they can, the semi-immortal Darkspawn Magister with a personal vendetta against me… I shake my head.

“Save the world.” I mutter. “How am I going to manage that?”

“The Mark will help, one hopes.” Solas interjects from nearby, rounding the corner of the building with a small satchel in one of his hands. 

I watch as he sits down in front of the building next to Adan’s, leaning against the wall with his staff planted firmly in the ground beside him. He plucks from the satchel three small, smooth black stones, like the ones you find on a riverbed, worn slick and shiny by the flow of the water. Each has a tiny array of symbols carved into the surface.

I watch as he presses two of his fingers, the left index and middle finger, to the stone in the middle. It begins to glow then, along with the tips of those fingers, a soft green like my Mark. Then he hums softly, eyes closed and lips pursed, and touches another stone. Then the third, before sighing deeply.

“It is as I suspected,” he declares. “Spirits still flock to the Breach in droves, curious of its nature or drawn by the lingering emotions of the explosion and battle. Most will not be able to cross over, without finding a rift. It is sealed, but not closed.”

“I put up some boards on the window, but the window is still open?” I ask, and Solas chuckles.

“An exceptionally human means of explaining the situation, but you are not wrong.” he replies, putting the stones back in his bag. “We will need assistance to seal the Breach, I suspect. Mages to empower your Mark.”

“Or Templars to weaken the Breach.” I reply, and I see him frown. “In all honesty, I’d rather it were both. This war has caused more than its share of pain. A collaboration between the two might help both remember that they’re meant to coexist.”

“You are a Templar.” Solas says, as if noting it as relevant for the first time.

“Raised as one, though not born.” I reply. “My mother was a mage.”

“And you do not have the gift?” He frowns.

“Is that pity in your voice?” I reply, voice lower now as I lean my shoulder against the wall. 

“Not at all.” He shakes his head now. “Only an idle observation. “One would expect a child born of two mages to also display the gift.”

“My father wasn’t a mage.” I say, tensing up a little. “I would prefer we not discuss this further.”

“As you wish.” He bows his head. “Still, a Templar. And yet I can see Calm still encircles your arm. Does the nearness of a spirit not frighten you?”

“Beck helped me when I needed it.” I reply, shaking my head. “It can stay with me as long as it likes.”

“You named it?” Apparently I am a wealth of surprises for Solas, given his stunned expression. “Curious. I was under the impression Templars hated spirits, or at least feared them.” 

“I was trained in the Chanson Circle.” I explain, remembering younger, easier days with a fond smile. “Our Senior-Enchanter studied the Fade devotedly, and the nature of spirits and demons. Knight-Captain Sarker was fine with it so long as he didn’t try to actually summon or bind anything. As such, most of his work was only theory, but he wrote whole books about those theories. I read some of it.”

I can almost sense Solas’ approval ticking upwards, and chuckle as I remember the rest of that memory.

“Most of it was utter gibberish to me.” I admit. “But I remember his chapter on the nature of spirits, and their differentiation from demons. He explained that demons and spirits embody an emotion; joy, pride, anger, calm. But demons embody the negative, and spirits the positive. So a demon was to be destroyed, as it was made of evil. But spirits were made of good, and could therefore be trusted more often than not.”

Solas frowns again now, but it isn’t an angry expression; just a look of concentration.

“Your Enchanter was not far from the truth.” he states, after a few seconds of thinking. “Though there are further complications. A spirit can be corrupted into a demon, for example.”

“He had thought that might be possible, but since summoning spirits or demons was forbidden by the Chantry…” I let the rest of the tale tell itself without words, and Solas nods.

“Still, it is good that you have kept an open mind.” the elf declares after a moment. “I was afraid you might be more like some of the stories of your Order, all fire and brimstone, looking to lock mages in prisons and suppress their freedom.”

“That isn’t what a Circle is.” I reply, before pausing. “Or… that’s not what it’s meant to be. Maybe some of them are. But that’s… it’s not supposed to be that way.”

Solas watches me now, all emotion hidden behind a mask of calm. I swallow as I try to explain myself as best I can. His hatred of Circles is very well defined in the game. I can’t change his mind, at least, not yet. But hopefully I can at least make him understand why they aren’t necessarily evil. Or perhaps why they are a necessary evil.

“Mages are dangerous if untrained.” I explain. “Just like anybody who has something dangerous they don’t know how to use. Hand a farm boy a sword and he’s likely to cut himself. If he does, he’ll drop it. But a mage can’t drop their magic. They have to learn to control it, so they don’t accidentally set fire to their home or strike their neighbours with lightning. The Circles are supposed to be a place for them to learn to control their power, and to be among fellow mages.”

“And why should it be the duty of Templars to police them?” Solas asks. “Should not the mages police themselves, as all other groups do?”

“Templars aren’t just policing mages.” I reply. “We protect them. From demons, from possession, the temptation of blood magic…”

“All things a mage could easily learn to avoid from other mages.” Solas replies, but I’m not finished yet.

“And from the world around them.” I say. “People are afraid of magic. I’ve heard more than one story of a young boy or girl accidentally causing suffering with their magic when it first comes in, and vengeful relatives or townsfolk…”

I remember Val Narie, that little town on the edge of the Dales. A tiny figure, far too small to be dangling from that rope, swaying in the breeze beneath the vast oak tree. I shudder, hugging myself. Too late. We were too late. Just like me.

“And the mages cannot defend themselves?” Solas asks.

I shake my head.

“A mage kills a man for hurting another mage.” I say. “It could be just. It could be self-defense. But a mage killed a man, and another mage benefited. That doesn’t look like policing. That looks like a group protecting its own interests and looking out only for each other, flaunting the power they have and others lack. A common man fears a mage because a mage is simply more powerful than he is, the same way a common man fears a noble. Templars bridge the gap. We are men like them, able to stand against mages.”

“So it’s a mix of ignorance and fear.” Solas shakes his head. “A common blend among humans, I find.”

“Arrogance and an innate sense of superiority.” I reply. “A common blend among elves, I find.”

He pauses at that, looking at me.

“Mock us all you want, Solas.” I say, standing up straight now, meeting him eye to eye. “Speak criticism of our systems and debate with me our failings. But do not resort to base insults and racial prejudice. It is beneath both of us.”

I walk away. Better to let him think on that than to provoke him any further. If he wants to abolish the Circles, so be it. But… I am a Templar as much as I am a student who fell through a hole in the bottom of a waterfall basin. Markus believes in the Circles and their necessity. Marcus can see the point of them, though less blatant corruption and abuse of power would be nice. 

The same can be said of just about every institution, though. Templars, Chantry, the royal court of Orlais… oh, the Winter Palace is going to be fun. I know just about nothing of court functions. Well, if there is a Winter Palace this time around. Who knows what I might change by then?

My next stop is Varric’s campfire, down the street and around the corner. He’s already there, warming himself by the open flame along with a couple of gentlemen in the robes of Circle Mages, with just enough wear and tear to show they are most likely apostates. One is shorter, with the sagging skin of a fat man forced to sudden thinness by circumstance, the other taller and darker, likely of Rivaini or Antivan descent.

“But… with all the Templars…” one protests, before Varric chuckles. 

“Not Templars any more,” he assures them. “Inquisition soldiers now. They’ll probably stop wearing the symbol soon enough. Besides, it’s a fresh slate for both sides. Nobody will judge you for what you did before.”

“That… that’s good to hear…” the darker of the two murmurs, nodding slowly as he leans against the twisted length of his staff, topped with a narrow rod of blue crystal. “When we left the Circle… we ended up hiding out in an abandoned farmhouse for months. We couldn’t go back to the Circle or we’d be executed, but we didn’t want to fight.”

I approach the fire and watch as both men stiffen up at my nearness, though Varric just glances my way and smiles.

“Ah, Herald.” he says, with a little grin on his face that tells me he enjoys taunting me with the title. “Come meet my new friends.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” I nod to each, and the shorter man nods back. “Markus Venier, Inquisition… agent, I suppose.”

“Hugo Demaret,” the shorter man greets, bowing his head. “Former Enchanter to the Belleque Circle, before this apostasy business began.”

“Ataviano De Calco.” the taller man mutters, after a moment. “Archivist to the Belleque circle.”

Hugo is audibly Orlesian, but Ataviano has one of those hard-to-place accents that could be from just about anywhere in Europe. Or, Thedas now, I suppose. I smile at him, and he huddles a little closer to his staff.

“It is good to meet you both.” I say. “Have you also joined the Inquisition.”

“It seems the wisest course of action, yes…” Hugo declares, nodding slowly. “But at the same time… we aren’t quite certain. There seems to be an awful lot of Templars joining up… and we’ve had bad experiences with templars. Haven’t we, Ataviano?”

“Oui.” Ataviano agrees in Orlesian, before looking at me. “You were a Templar before joining. Do you believe the Inquisition would have us?”

I think for a moment, really pondering my answer. I want to say yes, but at the same time… the tensions are undeniable. There are Templars among the Inquisition’s ranks who would likely stir up a fuss about mages, making demands for them to be imprisoned. But at the same time, a fledgling Inquisition will need all the men it can muster, mages or otherwise. 

“The Inquisition does not have any Templars.” I decide, shaking my head slowly. “Only agents of its own number. One’s past doesn’t matter, only his deeds as an agent. The Inquisition could use mages, as much as it can use soldiers, and you would be treated fairly. Commander Cullen’s right hand woman is a Tal Vashoth mage who’s never even been inside a Circle before, and an elven apostate is the only reason I’m alive right now.”

The two stare at me, disbelief plain in their eyes. But it isn’t belief I need, not when the truth is all around them. They will come to believe in their own time… or perhaps they won’t. I can’t force the world to shape to my whims. That wouldn’t be right. This isn’t a game any more. Shanna, Cassandra, Solas… all are proof of that. This is a world of real people now. I have to remember that.

They watch as I walk away, further out of Haven, Hugo speaking to Varric as I leave. I go to Seggrit, the arrogant blonde running Haven’s only store. He has a proper stall, with tables laden with wares… and all the manners I expected. He’s plain spoken enough to me, honest even, but he calls Shanna “knife-ear” and I feel my hands curl into fists against my will. That is one thing I don’t mind forcing to change, I think.

Then it’s down the steps and off to the main gate, guarded by soldiers of the Inquisition. That’s who they are now, not the ragtag band of guards, commoners and soldiers who stood against the Breach. A mage stands next to an Orlesian soldier, both resting against the same wall and sharing sips of water from a canteen. It is a good thing to see. Both straighten up and salute me as I pass, and I bow my head to them. It’s only polite.

Cullen is already drilling the new soldiers. Peasants alongside chevaliers… it’s a sight to see. Other Templars and a few Orlesian infantry are dotted among the assembled men, guiding strikes, offering advice. I consider speaking to Cullen, but when he looks down at another new notice passed to him by one of Leliana’s hooded men with despair in his eyes I decide to leave him be for a while. Cassandra drills alone, sword clashing with a straw-wrapped dummy. I do need to thank her for everything she did on the mountainside still, so I head that way.

“Herald!” a voice calls, unfamiliar, and I turn to see two men fast approaching me. One is a Templar, whom I vaguely recognize, and the other an elf in the boiled leather and sparse plate of a mercenary.

The elf reaches me first, holding up a sealed scroll. The Templar comes a moment later, holding a scroll of his own.

“Dispatch for you, ser.” the elf declares, panting from his run. “From Mistress Leliana.”

“Summons, brother.” the Templar says, leaning over a little to catch his breath. “From Chancellor Roderick.”

Ah. A choice. I take the scroll from the elf and open the end, sliding out the roll of parchment within. Leliana’s handwriting is surprisingly spidery and plain for someone who served in the Imperial court, but given my own rough hand I can hardly afford to judge. I read the words on the page carefully, and frown when I finish.

The Hinterlands, and Mother Giselle, await your arrival. I would recommend joining the detachment of soldiers Cullen is sounding tomorrow morning. 

Ad: Speak to Harret. He has something for you.

“So soon?” I am impressed by the speed of Thedas’ messenger birds, before rolling the scroll back up and giving it back to the messenger. “Thank you. Tell Lady Leliana this; I will go with the soldiers, but she should send a detachment of scouts with the men. And also inform her I said thank you, please. I wouldn’t want to draw her ire so soon.”

I chuckle, and the elf nods before turning and jogging through the snow. The Templar stares at me, and I meet his eye. He is a tall and darksome sort, with black hair trimmed close to the scalp. He looks Rivaini, I estimate, from his dark eyes and tan skin. 

“Chancellor Roderick summoned me?” I ask, and his expression turns sheepish. 

“Erm… not quite, brother.” he admits, rubbing the back of his head. “More of an… invitation. Sorry. Force of habit. I’m used to clerics giving orders more than asking nicely, you know?”

“I do.” I chuckle, and when he laughs with me I take his hand. “What’s your name, brother?”

“Giovenco, brother.” he says, confirming my suspicions of his Rivaini origins. “And you’re Markus, yes?”

“Last time I checked, though I’m beginning to worry it’s been changed to Herald and nobody told me.” I reply, which prompts him to chuckle himself. “Are you with the Inquisition now?”

“No.” he shakes his head, expression growing more sober. “I’ve elected to stay with the Order for now. We’ll need people between the Inquisition and the Chantry, Chancellor Roderick advised. I would join, but we needed a Templar to remain, and I volunteered.”

“An honourable path, brother.” I nod, and he seems hesitant to agree. “Thank you for relaying the Chancellor’s words to me. Would you tell him I’d be pleased to meet with him after we’ve eaten dinner? I suspect I’ll be busy running errands for most of the afternoon.”

Giovenco salutes me, and I salute him before he takes off toward Haven’s gate. I watch him go, amazed at just how many names I’m learning today. Shanna, Hugo, Ataviano… I pause.

Ataviano. Giovenco. Both tall, lean, black hair and dark eyes. Both Rivaini. Perhaps… 

I shake my head. I can wonder about familial ties between random people I meet later. For now, Cassandra… er, Seeker Pentaghast awaits. It’ll be strange adjusting to more formal titles, though hopefully I won’t have to stick with those for long. Strange for Marcus, at least. Markus finds it easy. 

She’s still hammering the dummy into submission when I approach, her frustration visible in every swing. She doubts herself. It’s easy to read the Seeker; she wears her heart on her sleeve and breast, splayed out across her doublet for all to see. It is her greatest weakness… and yet, it only makes her easier to trust. Hard not to believe the woman who can’t keep a secret to save her life. I have to wonder if she has one of those romance novels stowed somewhere on her already. Or perhaps those come later?

“Seeker Pentaghast.” I call, and she halts in her dummy-homicide to glance at me. “I do hope that isn’t my face you’re imagining?”

She frowns, before cleanly severing the dummy’s sack head with a single horizontal swipe of her sword. Maker, her form is magnificent, every part of her body moving in perfect harmony with her sword. It’s like an extension of her arm. A very long, sharp, metal extension, like a fingernail that kills. 

I’ve tortured the metaphor to death by the time Cassandra turns away from the dummy to face me, her expression serious. 

“No.” she assures me. “Not you. I don’t have a face for it yet. Not until I discover the truth of what happened.”

Ah. So one day soon it will be Corypheus’ face on that dummy. I just hope the real one dies with a single savage reverse stroke as well. It would certainly make life simpler.

“I remember nothing new,” I say, regretfully. “Whatever the creature was, I cannot place a name to it.”

“Leliana believes your description matches that of a Darkspawn,” Cassandra replies. “She has sent runners to look for some of the missing Grey Wardens. It is her hope that they might know something of this monster.”

“And what do you suspect?” I ask, watching as her expression darkens. 

“That the Divine’s death was part of something greater.” she replies, looking at the Breach. “She was just a woman, as mortal as any other for all her virtues. Such devastation was not necessary to kill her. Why destroy the entire Conclave? Kill hundreds?”

“She was not the only target.” I agree. “This assassin wanted the chaos. Or… he wanted something else, and was disrupted instead. The Breach may have been caused by a magical mishap.”

“On such a scale as to break open the sky?” Cassandra sounds surprised by my supposition, and I hate the fact I can’t confirm her suspicions without giving away the fact I know more than I should. “What sort of magic could he have been wielding?”

“I remember only the orb.” I reply, shaking my head. “And his allies. They were armoured and armed well, for mages.”

Cassandra’s brow furrows, before she looks at the decapitated dummy. Her sword is still in her hand, the point trembling as she shakes with impotent anger. It is disheartening to see, but I’m not sure what I can say at this point that will help.

“Did I do the right thing?” she asks, looking off into the distance. 

“I think you did the only thing that could be done.” I say, nodding. “But necessity and rightness… for what little my word is worth, I think refounding the Inquisition was the right thing to do. Thedas needs someone willing to act, to end this… chaos.”

She looks at me then. Really looks, up and down, as if seeing me for the first time. She frowns at first, but her eyes soften as she looks into mine. 

“I wanted to thank you.” I say, before she can speak herself. “You’ve given me more chances than I deserve. Here, and on the mountainside. I failed to protect the Divine, and despite that you have trusted me.”

“I worried we were putting too much upon you.” she replies, shaking her head. “On the mountain, every time the Breach and your Mark flared… you were in agony. I was concerned you might not make it. I wondered if I was killing you by forcing you to go.”

“There was no forcing of anything.” I shake my head in disagreement. “I volunteered to go to the Temple. The Breach needed to be sealed… and I’ve barely even managed that.”

I scowl at the sky, the swirling green hole in it more so than anything else. It hurts to look at for so long, when you start to see patterns and shapes in the ebb and flow of its fiery interior, past the air and magic and into the Fade itself.

“I can only hope the Templars are willing to lend their support for our cause.” Cassandra says. “The Order, I mean. If they can suppress the Breach, diminish its power…”

“Solas wants to reach out to the mages.” I say. “He believes they could charge the Mark with their magic, strengthen it to close the Breach permanently.”

She frowns at that.

“Solas knows much of the Fade…” she admits. “And he has not been wrong so far. But the apostates have done little to earn our trust. The Order is a safer bet, I think.”

“As Ambassador Montilyet has noted before, neither is likely to even speak to us yet.” I shake my head. “We’re just an upstart band of vagabonds and renegades calling ourselves the Inquisition, as far as either is concerned. Though now, we have a potential way of elevating ourselves.”

“Has Leliana received word from Mother Giselle?” Cassandra asks, and I nod. 

“I’ll be headed there on the morrow, with some of Cullen’s men.” I say.

“I must remain here.” she says, and I freeze for a moment. “There is so much to be done, recruits to process, soldiers to train… I will be assisting Cullen in most matters, and handling a few of my own.”

“I see.” I manage, surprised enough as it js. “I had hoped… I’ll be taking Varric and Solas then.”

She looks at me then, apologetic.

“Leliana wishes for Solas to remain here.” she explains. “We need more information on the Breach, and his is the closest thing we have to an expert. He has volunteered to comb through some of the older texts in Haven for clues as to the Breach’s origin.”

“Well… Varric it is.” I nod. “I hope to return with good news.”

Holy shit. I’m down two companions on my first actual mission. I mean… I’m not entirely shocked. It kind of makes sense that the woman who founded the Inquisition and the man who knows more about the Fade than anyone else wouldn’t go out into the field. At least, not when there’s work to be done. Still, just Varric for company in the Hinterlands… there’s a lot of rogue mages and Templars around there.

I take my leave from Cassandra, still reeling from the news. Well, at least I’ll be going in with a pack of Inquisition soldiers. Speaking of soldiers… the smithy seems like a good spot to visit next, and I apparently have something waiting for me there. I cast an idle glance at the place where Blackwall will one day stand, and consider how to handle the Thom Rainier situation.

Then I shake my head. I can think about all this crap on the road to the Hinterlands. It’s bound to be a journey of at least a couple of days. Plenty of time to consider the future ahead of me and not panic about all the stuff that might change before them.

The smithy is easy to find; I follow the sounds of hammers striking metal and the chuffing of the bellows and I’m there in minutes. Harret looks about the same, bald with a big old red beard and moustache, directing the work of one of his more brawny apprentices. The learher apron he wears is old and battered, but he’s got enough muscle and lines on his face to speak as to his experience.

“Harret?” I ask, and when he turns I nod. “Markus Venier. Lady Leliana directed me this way. She said you had something for me?”

“I do indeed.” He grunts for one of his men to grab something, before approaching me. “You’re the Herald then? I’m afraid your armour was just about destroyed by the blast at the Conclave; not much I could scavenge from it beside your vambraces. I’ve worked them into the new armour, though I filed off the Templar markings and replaced them with the new logo.”

“But the Inquisition has only been active for… what?” I think aloud. “Three, four hours?”

“Sister Leliana and Seeker Pentaghast sought me out ‘fore any of this madness began.” Harret explains, one of his apprentices walking up with a rolled canvas in his hands. “I’ve been working on Inquisition gear non-stop for two weeks. Getting proper fits has been hell, but our current batch of recruits ought to be in the uniform within the next day or so. But you…”

The canvas thuds down on the crate between us, and Harret unrolls it with a grunt of effort, showing me the fresh shirt of chain mail with a padded leather jerkin, vambraces, and greaves. 

“Are someone special,” he declares. “Or so I keep being told. Shirt’s a little longer than standard, but nothing outside of Templar standards. You can throw a longcoat over it if you like, we’ve got plenty in the storerooms. Might come in handy in these mountains.”

He spits in the snow to emphasize his point, before leaning back against the wooden pillar beside him, one of the support beams holding up the roof under which his men work.

“That’s good quality steel,locally mined and refined.” Harret says. “Would’ve worked a little sunstone into the vambraces, but we’re fresh out of anything that isn’t iron or onyx. Can’t make a decent alloy with onyx.”

I hold the mail shirt in my hand. It feels sturdy, strong without being too heavy. Distributed all across my body, it will be an easy weight to manage. And if it can stop even a basic blade, it will be well worth the effort of wearing it. The vambraces are familiar to my hands, Markus’ hands, given to him by Knight-Sergeant Benoit on the day of my knighting just a few short months ago. 

“With these the oath is sealed…” I whisper. “Never to be broken.”

I don them first, testing the fit. The straps are new, sturdy leather freshly tanned. They fit snug, and don’t twist or tug when I move my arms. The sigil of the Inquisition, the fiery eye and sword, peers at me, etched with the lightest lines of orange copper to stand out. I look at the blacksmith and his apprentice, both watching me with curious eyes. 

“It’s good.” I say. “Very good work. A good fit too. Thank you.”

“Be sure to put it through its paces.” Harret warns. “I’d recommend a spar before you get into a proper fight. Make sure it all fits when you’re dancing about with a blade in your hand. This is battle gear, make sure it’s still comfortable when you’re wearin’ it for what it’s made for.”

“I will.” I nod, before wrapping the canvas back up. “Thank you, Harret. I’ll put it to good use.”

“I bet you will.” the bald man nods. “Now, off you go. Plenty of work to be done, for Heralds and smiths.”

I do as I am bid, my new armour slung over my shoulder as I return to the quarters assigned to me. As Herald, I merit my own two-room cabin, made of sturdy wood with a heavy thatch roof. The styling is Ferelden and Orlesian at the same time, somehow, with the low profile of a Ferelden hut and the larger windows of an Orlesian cottage. I place my armour down on the table in the bedroom, before sitting down on the bed and breathing out.

I’ll need a team in the Hinterlands. Varric is good… no, better than good, Varric is great, but I’ll need backup. A mage would be best. But Solas is to stay here… perhaps one of the circle members? And another warrior would be a good match, someone else capable of taking a hit without staggering. One of my fellow former Templars?

Lysette springs to mind suddenly, and Beck warms gently around my arm. She stood up for me against the clerics, and fought Absolute in the Temple ruins. If I had to choose any of the Templars, it would be her. As for mages… Hugo was an Enchanter of a circle. A senior mage… though possible not a battlemage.

Lysette and Hugo. Unless I can find alternatives, those two seem to be my best bets. I hope. I stand then, walking to the meagre bookshelf in the corner of the cabin. It’s a small thing, only a few tomes laying lonely and forlorn, dusty and untouched. I take one, noting the title. ‘Blood of Lions: The Birth of Orlais’. The title is promising, if nothing else.

Ten minutes later, I am reminded not to judge a book by its cover. For such an enthralling name, Blood of Lions is a boring read. The only things the author seems intent on talking about are the natures of each historical figures’ political opinions, most of them being singular monarchists. It reeks of lazy propaganda, and I place the book down on the bookshelf before sighing. 

Right. Local literature isn’t for me, I suppose, unless I can find some science fiction. That sparks an amusing image in my mind, but I shake my head to rattle it free. Space dragons and the tales thereof can wait. I have a party to gather.

First, Lysette. She’s easy enough to find, watching the soldiers train without joining herself, standing by the main palisade of Haven with her armour on and helmet off. I look at her more closely as I approach. She’s young, like me, probably a year or two older. A recently elevated knight then, probably from the same Circle as Captain Rylen. Her hair is brown, cut short in a sort of pixie-cut. There are bags under her eyes, those blue orbs slightly bloodshot. She’s tired. Stressed and strained, and the slight hunch tells me she’s hungry. But why wait it out here?

“Lysette.” I greet her with a bow of the head, and she looks at me and smiles. “Do you have a moment?”

“More than a moment.” she replies, leaning against the palisade. “Captain Rylen says I am to await instruction from the inner circle like the others, but I have received no word. Commander Cullen has no use for me, and I dare not speak to Lady Leliana or Lady Montilyet.”

“Then perhaps my request will interest you.” I say, resting against the wall beside her, arms folded. “Tomorrow I will be leaving for the Hinterlands. A Chantry cleric by the name of another Giselle has asked to meet me, so she can verify my identity as Herald of Andraste. But the Hinterlands are quite chaotic at the moment, and I fear with only Master Tethras at my side I might not make it very far.”

“Anything is better than standing around waiting for orders.” Lysette nods, and I’m pleasantly surprised by the speed of her agreement. “I will join you, I think. It would be good to do work again… better than just standing around.”

“Splendid.” I salute her, and she matches me. That was easier than I expected, though I somehow doubt Hugo will be as willing to go along with me. 

I make my way back into Haven, past the guards at the gate and Seggrit’s bustling stall. Up the stairs to Varric’s campfire again, where he stands alone now, hands held out towards the flame. He hears me coming, smiles as I stand next to him and join him in the warmth.

“So, how’d the Seeker seem?” he asks, and when I look at him he chuckles. “Oh, come on now. I doubt the Commander would have time for you yet, and the Seeker’s been beating on dummies for the last two days straight. If there was anybody to visit outside, it would be her. So how is she?”

“Why not check on her yourself?” I ask, and he laughs again.

“And get my head taken off by an “errant swing” of her sword?” He shakes his head. “I’ll face down demons, kid, but Seeker Pentaghast? She’s far out of my comfort zone.” 

“Any feelings on the Ferelden countryside?” I ask.

“Not particularly.” Varric’s hand comes up to his chin, however, and he seems to mull it over. “Is this about something in particular?”

“I’m heading into the Hinterlands tomorrow, to meet with a Chantry mother named Giselle.” I explain. “She wants-”

“To meet the Herald of Andraste.” Varric nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. You inviting me to tag along?”

“You’re a good shot, and apparently there’s been all manner of chaos in the area.” I reply. “I’d rather not go it alone, especially if we end up doing anything else in the region beyond simply talking to the Mother. Besides… it would get you away from Seeker Pentaghast.”

Varric seems to take that to heart, scratching his stubble before looking up at me.

“I think that sounds like a solid deal.” he says. “I’ll take you up on it. When do we leave?”

“With the soldiers, so early in the morning.” I reply. “Best to be ready for dawn.”

“Ah, no late night wicked grace then…” he sighs. “Shame. I was looking forward to seeing how many Templars know how to play.”

“Looking to exploit my former comrades?” I ask, cocking my head to one side. “A dangerous pastime, Master Tethras. Templars are defensive of their own.”

“But you aren’t a Templar any more, kid,” Varric reminds me. “And besides, I always play to win.”

I stare at him, expression grim. He matches it, our eyes boring into each other, before cracking into a smile. We both start laughing then, though his mirth is a little more genuine than mine. Eventually we sober up, though we’re both still smiling.

“I don’t know what’s coming, kid, but if I had to take odds…” He looks me up and down. “You’ve got a good chance of getting that hole in the sky closed. Don’t forget; you’ve already got the job halfway done.” 

I nod. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ve got some packing to do.” Varric withdraws into his tent, and I stand by the fire a moment longer before departing. 

To seek the mages, or no? As useful as magic would be… would any of them even trust me? I am… was a Templar. Most of them think of me as an oppressor, just the sort of person they had so recently rebelled against. My title as Herald is new, untested. Many will believe… more will doubt. I’d rather they did; even I’m still not a hundred-percent certain on the “Chosen by Andraste or not” debate and I was there this time.

No, I decide. I won’t go looking for a mage. Not yet. Even if Solas isn’t available, it’s only a matter of time before Vivienne and Dorian end up contacting or meeting me. And I’ve met so many people who didn’t exist last time around; Hugo, Giovenco, Ataviano… lots of O’s. funny. But they’re real now, when they weren’t before. People who had no names or faces…

Fuck. Every person I kill will be the same. Every Venatori, every Red Templar, every highwayman, bandit and brigand… they’ll have faces, names, mothers and fathers, hopes and dreams. This isn’t a game. This is my life now.

The realization leaves me standing alone in the middle of the street, staring at the ground. I only realize so when somebody bumps into me, and I apologize before slipping through the crowd. I had somewhere else to be, I recall. An invitation?

Roderick. Right. He had advice for me, which is something I never expected but am happy to accept. First… food of some sort. Where do I go to eat around here? The tavern comes to mind, so I head that way first.

The Tavern is loud. Evidently a group of the Inquisition's new soldiers just got off of a training shift or something, because the room is crowded with about twenty of them, all raising glasses and tankards and shouting about this and that. One man boasts of how many demons he’ll kill, and his comrade tells him to hush up. Two women have an arm wrestle while their male companions pass copper coins around in a betting pool. A stout female mage drinks with a dwarven man in the corner, both clearly well on their way to intoxication.

It’s almost enthralling, the atmosphere, and when I enter I’m immediately barraged with calls of “Herald” and people inviting me to sit at their table. I pass them by with apologies, making my way to the bar where Flissa, the slightly-ditzy bartender, stands pouring ale into tankards for a trio of Orlesian men. She flirts shamelessly with each, though only the man on the left seems to respond. The other two have eyes only for each other, and I chuckle as I step past them.

“Good evening.” I greet, and Flissa looks at me with surprise. “Is there food available for purchase?”

“Your grace!” she says, stunned for a moment by my presence. “Or… your holiness… or is it my lord…?”

“Just Markus will suffice, please.” I reply. 

“As you will, ser.” She bows her head and I hide a sigh behind my hand, before she realizes I’m waiting. “Oh! Um… yes ser, food… we have food, I-I’ve made some meat pies, would you like some?”

“Pie sounds wonderful.” I nod, and she quickly turns around and begins to dish up some of the savoury pastry for me. Food of any sort sounds wonderful, to be wholly honest.

It is just a few minutes later I find myself halfway through a frankly enormous slice of meat pie, with a tankard of water (snowmelt, she called it) beside my plate, speaking with one of the three Orlesians about the Dales. He grew up there as well, it seems, though in his father’s estate rather than a Circle. We share a few laughs about the miserable weather in the winter, and the flatness of the terrain, joking about runaway hounds and being able to see them days later, still running.

Good food and good company make the end of the day a good one. 

I could get used to Thedas, I think.

End Chapter the Fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re going to the Hinterlands soon, I promise. Time skip to start the next chapter, so be ready for that. Thank you again for the views and comments; we’ve nearly broken a hundred of the former. 
> 
> Also, shoutout to Red_Faux for the heads up on some errors in Chapter Two. They’ve been rectified.


	5. There Will Be Blood

“So… this is Ferelden.” 

Lysette speaks her mind, and she does not sound impressed. Orlesian to the bone, I imagine the rough countryside of the Hinterlands comes as a bit of a surprise to her. The rustic mountainside and deep valleys, interspersed with forests of evergreens and shallow, winding rivers are all quite different from the open fields and fertile farms of Orlais. Even the buildings look wrong to her, rounder and built much lower to the ground than the average Orlesian villa. 

I can’t help but feel a similar sense of alienation. Markus was born in Orlais, and raised in Orlais. Even with Marcus’ memories of running about in the Hinterlands as Trevelyan, Adaar and Lavellan, this is still a new environment to me. The air smells thickly of evergreen sap and loamy earth, the distant sickly-sweet of fertilizer carried by the wind. Here and there clusters of embrium flowers dot the terrain, gently bobbing back and forth in the gentle breeze. 

Newer to the region is the scent of horses and men, the smells of soldiers who have been marching hard for several days. I was given a horse, as were Varric and Lysette. The latter rides with grace, as one would expect of an Orlesian of noble blood, while the former is a little more awkward in the saddle, clinging to the reins with both hands to maintain his balance. Dwarves, he has complained more than once, are not particularly good on horseback. 

Wagons rattle along the furrowed road behind us, carrying supplies for the fifty-odd soldiers on the march here. Barely more than a platoon of soldiers, but in the chaos of the Hinterlands fifty armed men in an organized band may indeed be the most powerful force present. I let my eyes wander across their number, peering over my shoulder for a moment. All are wearing the semi-ornate plate of the Inquisition, shirts of ringmail and sashes of orange rope over leather, with those pot-helms atop their heads glinting dully in the midday sun. 

“What exactly were you expecting, Kit?” Varric asks, glancing her way from where he rides to my right. 

“More dogs, for one.” Lysette replies without missing a beat. “And… the Blight was only ten years ago, but the land looks to be completely healed. I had heard the Darkspawn left nothing but ruin in their wake…”

Varric chuckles, before pointing to the stream that runs beside the road, some twenty feet off to the left. It burbles gently over rocks, shallow yet crystal clear.

“This is good land,” he declares. “At least, as far as my city-boy eyes can see. It’ll take more than some ugly monsters to ruin it.”

Lysette frowns, turning her head down. She often does that when confused, it seems, it’s been a consistent habit since we set out three days ago. Every time Varric says something she doesn’t get, usually a double-entendre, she glances at her feet or the back of her horse’s neck, furrows her brow and frowns, concentrating on the words spoken. It’s an oddly childish habit, but I put it down to just that; habit. She’s been doing it so long she probably doesn’t even think about it any more, and neither Varric nor I has the courage to tell her otherwise. 

The road carries on, winding between groves of trees, but as we draw deeper into the Hinterlands we see more and more signs of the chaos. At first it’s a scorched patch of grass here, a bloodstain on the leaves of a bush there. But then comes the first corpse; a sellsword, it looks like, in cheap boiled leather, with a gash in his throat that stretches from under his left ear across and halfway down to his shoulder. Caught a sword from a man on horseback, I’d estimate, bled out slowly. He’s leaned against a tree, curled in on himself somewhat, messy brown hair infested with flies that crawl all about his corpse. 

Lysette lets out an audible sound of disgust that reminds me of Cassandra, while Varric just shakes his head mournfully. I find myself unable to look away from the corpse for a long moment, eyes locked to the dead man’s empty gaze. He’s not even looking at me, he’s staring at the earth between his spread legs, mouth agape in slack-jawed surprise. But I stare and watch the flies crawl all along his body, before finally forcing myself to look away. 

I see ahead more signs of the chaos we’ve come to stop; another dead sellsword and a slain templar alike, the former missing his left arm from the elbow down and the latter still stuck to a tree by a slowly melting chunk of ice that froze him in place. The arrow jutting from the slit in his helmet tells how he died, the blood having pooled and frozen on the ice below his neck. We pass them by without comment, but I make a note in my head to see if we can’t have a couple of soldiers come back and burn the bodies. Packs of undead would be one too many problems for the Hinterlands to handle, I think, even with the Inquisition present. 

Eventually we come to a suitable place for the Inquisition to set up a base camp; the small convoy coming to a halt and soldiers setting to unpacking tents and barrels of foodstuffs. Two men set out a large wooden table beneath a newly erected pavilion, and the unit commander, a former knight of Ferelden whom I know to be named Fallon, sets out a large map of southern Thedas with a grunt. It is him who I first approach, right as a small figure emerges from the brush nearby and approaches me.

“Ser Fallon!” I greet, right as a very different voice calls me “Herald”. 

Fallon turns towards me as I turn towards the newcomer. The red hair, dwarvish stature and light scale armour immediately inform me that I’m looking at Scout Harding, cute as a button and looking a touch more nervous than perhaps my minimalistic authority mandates. She raises a hand in greeting.

“Scout Harding, ser, with the Inquisition.” she declares, before looking at the approaching Ser Fallon and freezing. “O-oh, my apologies ser, am I interrupting something?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” I admit, nodding. “But… you’re our scout, then? Leliana mentioned having agents in the area ahead of our advance.”

“That would be Agent Dalish, ser,” Harding replies, shaking her head. “She’s currently pathfinding in the northern edge of the Hinterlands. She sent me to meet with your convoy and give a report on the local landscape.”

“Well, out with it then.” Fallon barks, terse and clearly short-tempered at all the interruptions. 

Harding takes a breath, and I smile reassuringly for her as Varric and Lysette approach from behind me, joining our little group.

“The Hinterlands are a mess right now, sers.” she begins. “The mages and Templars have been going mad with power, killing each other and anyone who gets in their way. Both have been stealing from the locals, or just taking what they want at swordpoint. Almost everybody from the nearby farms has taken refuge at the crossroads. Chantry Mother Giselle is there.”

“The crossroads’ll be just ahead, Herald.” Fallon grunts. “Figure I’ll send you and about ten of the boys to introduce ourselves while we set up camp here.”

I nod, before looking up and past Harding at some movement along the treeline. My eyes go wide when I see a man emerge from the brush, sprinting like the hounds of hell were after him. He looks like a farmer, in plain roughspun clothes, but the expression on his face is one of pure terror.

“Apostates!” he cries. “Run while you can!”

A jagged chunk of ice the size of my fist comes hurtling from beyond the trees, slamming into one of our soldier’s heads. His helmet does little to save him, the metal crumpling under the impact and driving into his skull, leaving him to stand where he dies, confused, before crumpling to the ground like a marionette divested of its strings. I reach down to my hip and draw my sword, ducking low as the farmer sprints past, diving under one of the wagons. Scout Harding already has her bow in her hands, while Ser Fallon grabs the heavy battleaxe from his back and hefts it in his hands. 

“Herald, go around the right.” he commands, his voice low. “Don’t let them encircle us. We need to drive them away from the supplies.”

“On it.” I reply, taking off to that side with my sword firmly grasped in my left hand, right above the crossguard, holding it by the base of the blade. “Lysette, Varric, with me.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Varric already has Bianca in his hands, cocking it with a heavy clunking sound before running after me, making good time with his stumpier legs. 

Lysette doesn’t need to speak; she’s already moving beside me, covering both of our upper bodies with her shield and keeping her head low. I was a little surprised to see a girl only an inch or so taller than me hefting one of those massive metal tower shields, but then I reconsidered when I saw her lift it. With the bottom edge sitting flat on the ground, the shield covers her entire body but her shoulders and head. Lifted by her arm… she can cover herself and one other person from ankle to scalp by ducking a little. Her sword is a standard one-handed short blade, meanwhile, though I know from sparring along the road she can deliver an almost cruel thrust if she deems it necessary. 

Another chunk of ice comes flying from the forest, but this one bounces off Lysette’s shield with a resounding clang, leaving a small dent in the thick metal. I let out a sound of annoyance as a bolt of fire passes over our heads.

“They’re flexible.” I groan, and Varric laughs. “Wonderful.”

“A whole medley of murderous magic, just for us.” the dwarf adds, a wry grin on his face. “Oh, that’s a good one. Remind me to write it down later.”

Another icy projectile bounces off of Lysette’s shield, but by now I’m peering into the gloom of the forest, trying to discern just where our foes are positioned. I can see shapes moving about, an arrow flying from somewhere within, but numbers and positions are very successfully hidden by the undergrowth and trees alike. 

“Stay behind me!” Lysette calls, planting her shield firmly on the ground once we reach what seems to be the outer edge of the apostate’s attack, ducking low behind it. “We can force them to approach!”

Varric is already peering out from behind her, sighting down Bianca’s inbuilt scope, looking for something to shoot. After a moment he fires a bolt and cranks a new one into the mechanism, watching for a moment and frowning. 

“Missed.” he grunts, before sighting. “I see three mages and an archer. Might be more archers, can’t tell for SHIT!”

He rolls backwards a bolt of flame shoots through the point in space where his head had just been, letting out a groan as he picks himself back up. I peek out too, watching the forest. I see two mages at least, one illuminated by the crackling fire in his palm while the other is ducking backwards away from Scout Harding’s arrows. The archer with them is invisible to me, however.

“We need to move closer and press them back.” I declare, and Lysette nods before picking up her shield, Varric firing another bolt and letting out a scoff when it too misses. 

Lysette and I advance into the woods, moving at a steady run, stepping over roots and ducking beneath branches. I bring my sword up, ready to slash or stab. Both of us begin chanting a Litany, the Canticle of Denial, and I watch as the mage with fire in his hand looks up in fear, his face obscured a second later when the flame goes out. 

Then Lysette crashes into him with her shield and he is flung backwards, crashing down to the ground with a yelp of pain. His friend with the ice appears from behind a tree, firing a wash of cold air at us, but the Canticle denies it becoming anything truly dangerous. I move towards him, out from behind Lysette, and he too begins to run. Inquisition soldiers are entering the woods with us, encircling the mages. 

Then one of them drops to the ground, choking on a shaft of wood jammed deep into his throat, and I belatedly remember that they have an archer. I search for him, scanning my surroundings… then I see a boot behind a tree, and hear a bowstring creaking slightly, and I rush forward without thinking any more.

The archer emerges from behind the tree, raising his bow, but before he can fire my sword flicks out and smashes it against the tree, cutting deep into the wood. He drops it, going for a weapon at his belt, likely a sword or dagger, but before he can draw I jab the sword forward. Sharp and well-forged steel parts boiled leather like butter and I feel the sword stop only when it catches on bone. The archer coughs up blood, eyes going wide, before I pull the blade free. 

He stumbles backward, falling on his ass, hands rising to try and cover over the bleeding hole in his chest. I hit the heart, I think, he’s almost certainly dead. Sure enough he has only a moment to gurgle some formless word before his head falls back and he hits the ground, dying in the dirt. 

I take a step back from his corpse, shocked. I just killed a man. Drove a sword into him and made him die. He’s gone. Holy shit I just fucking killed a man what the hell. Am I panicking? Going into shock? I don’t feel like it. The ground is stable, I can still hear and see just fine, my body isn’t going numb or stiffening up. I hear the mages surrender, surrounded and helpless, and lower my sword so the point sticks in the dirt. The three mages are dragged from the woods, but I can’t look away from the dead man before me. 

“Markus?”

A hand touches my shoulder, and I look at it, following the arm to see Lysette staring at me, concerned. I close my eyes and shake my head, grimacing.

“Sorry…” I murmur. “Just…”

She looks from me, down at the dead bowman, and realization dawns in her expression. She takes my arm, pulling me away from the body.

“Your first?” she asks, and I nod once. “Ah. It was clean.”

“I killed him,” I say, voice distant now. “I just… stabbed him, and he died.”

“That is how a sword is meant to work, yes,” Lysette agrees, nodding, before pulling me closer, holding my upper arms in her hand, making me look at her. “Markus. Look at me. That man would have killed us.”

“I-I…” I choke on my reply and she shakes her head. 

“You did what you had to.” she declares. “Blessed are the righteous, Markus. Remember that. If he was a just man, he is at the Maker’s side now. If he was not, and he was not, then he has been met with the justice he rightly deserved.”

I swallow back the horror in me, taking comfort in her words. Marcus is still terrified, but Markus is coming around. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me. Or one of these soldiers, or even Varric or Lysette. He had to be stopped, and killing him… it worked. 

Fuck. Demons were easier than this. 

“You’re right.” I say, after a moment. “I… let’s regroup with the others.”

She nods, taking her shield from where she had laid it against a tree, hefting it onto her arm. She turns to depart, but before she can go I speak up again. 

“Lysette.” I say, voice low. “You… thank you.”

She smiles over her shoulder, a rare sight. Her teeth are a little crooked, I notice, though that’s hardly surprising in a time period like this.

“You’re welcome.” she says. “And don’t worry. It has happened to all of us.”

I take my sword from the ground and follow her out of the trees, but not before wiping off some of the blood on the grass. Right. That was… the first. And it almost definitely won’t be the last, unfortunately. Hopefully this gets easier, or I’m not going to be much of a saviour at all. 

Hoping that killing people gets easier. This is my life now, I remind myself. I didn’t ask for it… but this is the world in which I live. 

Ser Fallon has all three mages on their knees before him, their hands having been bound and staves taken away. The soldiers were angry, that much was clear from the way they loomed over the captured foe. I approach from behind the mages, looking at Ser Fallon.

“How many dead?” I ask the obvious question first.

“Three.” Fallon replies, his eyes murderous as he stares down at the captured apostates, all of whom look up at him with defiance in their eyes. “I’m of a mind to string these three up in return.”

“A logical solution.” I nod, before standing behind the mages. “But perhaps first we might ply some information from them? These are apostates, ser, and mages in travel in packs.”

The words are entirely those of Markus, and Ser Fallon looks at me with a raised eyebrow. Then he nods, turning his back on the apostates.

“Ask them your questions, lad.” he says. “Then we’ll send them to the Maker.”

“As if He’d take this lot.” one of the soldiers spits, before walking away. 

The crowd clears, the three apostates notably more concerned when they recognize Lysette and I as the Templars who so thoroughly ruined their plan of attack before. I place my sword in the dirt before them, planting the tip in the soil and leaning on it. All three stare up at me.

“Names.” I command.

The one in the middle, an older man with a large scar across his cheek, spits on the soil at my feet, failing to quite reach my boots. I sigh, before looking at the woman with the shaved head to his left, who scowls at me. The last of the three is a younger woman, who can’t meet my eyes.

“Tell me, did you attack us for our supplies?” I ask, looking at the youngest, cowering behind her blonde hair. “Or was it bravado? You really thought you could best fifty men by yourselves?”

“Damn you, Chantry dog.” the older man declares. “You’ll have no answers from us.”

His accent is deeply Fereldan, an angry brogue in every word. I meet his brown eyes, and he seems to hesitate for a moment, before looking at the older woman beside him. 

“You’ll not have the satisfaction of knowing, you lout.” the woman is Orlesian, her accent makes that plain. “We will die before we tell you anything.”

“I get the feeling that would suit my fellows just fine.” I reply, leaning in closer to the pair of them. “But I have the feeling you’d rather not take a long drop with a quick stop. So why don’t you answer my questions, and we’ll see if we can’t assure you a better fate than the noose?”

Varric watches me speak, and beneath me the old man scowls again, glancing at his youngest compatriot, who has begun quietly sobbing with fear.

“You’ll hang us anyways.” he declares. “You thugs are all the same. I’ll not sell my comrades in exchange for a sweeter end.”

I sigh, shaking my head slowly, before I hear Lysette drawing her sword behind me. She squats down in front of the man, laying the blade across his neck right below the chin. He remains defiant, a cold glare in his eye, while Lysette turns her eyes toward the apostate with the shaved head.

“Where are the apostates hiding?” she asks, her voice low, cold and deadpan. “You have ten seconds to tell us the truth.”

The old man stands defiant, opening his mouth to speak, but Lysette pressed the blade a little more firmly against his skin, cutting a tiny gash in his wizened old flesh. Blood wells along the edge of her sword, and the younger woman trips over her own words twice trying to tell us the truth. 

“Witchwood!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear. “Gavriel led us to the Witchwood, in the cave by the grove! The rift would shield us, he said, please, you must believe me!” 

Lysette stares at her for a long moment, stalking closer with her sword, before frowning and bending down. She takes a fistful of the woman’s robe and uses it to clean her blade, the Fereldan behind her cursing his companion’s cowardice. I watch as she stands up to her full height, eyes cold as she stares down at the Orlesian mage, now blubbering helplessly in terror. 

When she raises her sword again, I reach out and I catch her arm, stopping her from stabbing down into the woman’s throat. Lysette freezes, before looking at me, and I shake my head.

“Don’t.” I say, a quiet plea. “You’ve proven your point.”

“They will die either way.” she replies, shrugging my hand away and lowering her sword. “It is kinder this way.” 

“I think it would be kinder to leave them alive.” Varric notes, his voice rumbling with dissatisfaction. “C’mon Kit, step over here for a second.” 

She does as Varric bids, walking away from the now weeping mage and her furious companion. Ser Fallon walks up beside me, clearing his throat.

“The farmer told all.” he says, voice grim. “These three torched his home, killed his son while they fled. They were looking for gold.”

I stare down at the woman whose life I just saved, eyes narrowed. In a split second, I look up at the treeline, beyond which a man lays dead with a hole in his chest. A hole I put there. I close my eyes, breath out.

“Hanging.” I nod once. “Make it a clean fall. But first… a chance to repent”

He looks at me then, confused.

“The Inquisition needs every hand it can get.” I say, speaking quieter now, leaning closer. “A chance to serve should not be denied.”

“The men will call it undue mercy.” Fallon grumbles, and I look at him. 

“Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever.” I can only hope I’ve gotten a proper read on the man, and that my assumption of his great faith is not mistaken as I recite the Sermon at Valarian Fields. “But one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker’s law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.”

Fallon looks at me for a long minute, unblinking. His eyes pierce my own, and I can practically feel him analyzing my words, looking for fault. But after that minute he is forced by his own dogmatic belief to lower his head, shaking it slowly. 

“This is madness.” he mutters. “Utter madness.”

“Perhaps.” I admit, cocking my head to the side. “But is not this whole affair madness? We are at war, Ser. A war requires soldiers to fight it.”

“Soldiers,” Fallon spits on the floor. “Not… bah. Piss on it then. I’ll have them chained and sent back to Haven when we get the chance.”

“Let them choose.” I advise him, allowing Markus to speak with a cold tone of authority. “They rebelled for freedom. We offer it now freely; live or die?”

I turn to the three, the Ferelden scowling up at me between harsh glares directed towards his compatriots. I squat down in front of him like Lysette, reaching up and brushing away the welling blood from the hollow of his neck. He shudders, recoiling, and I grab him by the collar.

“What was his name?” I ask, voice harsher than I intended. “The archer with you. What was his name?”

“The sell sword?” he grunts, blinking slowly. “Damned if I know. He killed for coin. Why would I bother learning his name?”

I let go of the Ferelden, standing back up. The other two mages stare at me, awaiting my judgement. In the grove beyond, a man with no name is dead by my hands. I bite back a curse, before looking down at my prisoners.

“You have a choice to make.” I declare. “The Inquisition has a need of agents, which is why you aren’t awaiting execution just yet. If you volunteer to serve, you will be spared.”

“And trade one master for another?” the Ferelden snaps at me, eyes narrowed. “I’ll die before I live under another Templar!”

I look to his fellows. The older woman meets my eyes but the younger shies away. I watch both of them closely. The Orlesian watches me right back, eyes narrowed.

“Damn you, Templar…” she mutters, before nodding. “I have no intentions of dying on a roadside in this backwater land. I will join your… Inquisition.”

I look to the third, the one who broke when Lysette threatened the Ferelden. The man is cursing his compatriot for a coward, but the girl just stares at the dirt of the road, tears in her eyes. I’d feel sorry for her were it not for the corpses of Inquisition soldiers being dragged away by their fellows behind me. Finally, she sniffles.

“I-I don’t want to d-die…” she murmurs, forcing herself to look up at me. “I’ll… I’ll join the Inqui… Inquisition…”

“Two for three.” I mutter, before turning away. 

Fallon isn’t pleased with the news, but I think he settles for hanging the Ferelden mage. I say nothing to him of that; it’s his business, not mine. I have to reach the Crossroads, and hope it isn’t under assault just yet. Lysette joins me after a moment of solitude, startling me by placing a hand on my arm.

“Sorry,” she says, before looking me in the eye. “I must know; why did you spare them?”

Behind me, I hear the Ferelden cursing his fellows again as he’s dragged away from them, no doubt to be taken to tree somewhere and hung. I sigh, a mournful sound.

“I have to believe that the mages can be saved.” I tell her, unable to meet her eye. “If they cannot, then who has failed them?”

She stares at me a moment, disbelieving, but I say nothing more. Frankly, I’m sick to my stomach and in dire need of water. It’s a hot day in the Hinterlands, and the mounting pressure of my position is beginning to wear on me. Marcus has never killed before. Markus has killed once, a mad, starving dog on a roadside. That was a fearful task, but this… men die much harder than dogs, and there are few who would mourn a rabid beast.

I push Lysette’s hand from my arm, turning instead towards the road ahead. The Crossroads await, and there I will find advice I already know. Go to Val Royeaux. Show myself to the Chantry. Watch helplessly as the Templars disgrace themselves before all the world. Meet an envoy, collect red things, attend a salon. 

Watch helplessly. Do I need to, really?

An idea sparks. A foolish one, perhaps, but an improvement over the usual path I must take. Dots connect at light speed, details slowly filling themselves in as I scheme internally. For the last three days I’ve been mulling over the choice between Templars and Mages. Perhaps, I wonder… I don’t need to choose. 

It will be complicated. It may not even work. But there is a chance. A slim chance, but better than the binary I was trapped in before.

Lysette notices, I think. She watches me as I march down the road, followed by a handful of the Inquisition’s soldiers, herself and Varric. My mind races, a newfound energy in my every step. Hope. Is this what hope feels like? Sweet relief?

I only hope I find more to come.

We pass by more signs of the war. Dead Templars. Dead apostates. Dead innocents caught between. A fire rages in a field, one we can’t combat just yet. A woman hangs by the neck from the outstretched limb of a blackened, skeletal oak tree. I order her cut down and two soldiers obey, one climbing up the trunk and setting to the noose with a dagger while the other gently pulls her down. Before long she is laid to rest beneath the tree, awaiting collection for the future funeral pyre I still need to propose. 

Then, from ahead, through a stone tunnel beneath a craggy rock face, we hear sounds of conflict. A woman’s scream and a man’s roar of anger, and the unmistakable snap-hiss of fire magic. Lysette and I share a glance, drawing our weapons. Varric hefts Bianca with a grunt, while the soldiers ready themselves. Fourteen in total march with me, more than I had dared hope for. Fallon chose them well, many former veterans of combat even before joining the Inquisition. Mostly Ferelden like him, though I see an Orlesian moustache on one of the taller warriors, hefting a decorated greataxe. 

“Apostates or rogue Templars, we’ll find few friends here,” I warn them, turning to face them as I speak. “We go in quickly and secure the area. Protect the locals, and keep your heads down if mages are present.”

“These sellswords are familiar to me, ser,” the Orlesian interjects, hefting his axe on one shoulder. “I ‘ave fought them before, I think. They will break easily if their archers are slain.”

“Focus the archers, and keep your shields up.” I agree, nodding my thanks to him. “Are you ready?”

The men chant their affirmation, and I take a moment to breathe. 

“Andraste watch over us all,” I say, before adding something unexpected. “And know that should you fall, I will commend you to her.”

They are bolstered by that, I think. Swords are drawn, shields raised, and one man raises a small horn to his lips as we march. Thrice he blows, a Ferelden signal for reinforcements if I recall Markus’ military learnings correctly. Then Lysette and I break into a run, through the stone tunnel and into the open stretch of the Crossroad village. 

I see immediately a Templar with his back to me, halfway through a turn. My sword flicks out and knocks aside his hasty parry, before I step in and ram him with my shoulder. He staggers, lighter than I expected, and Lysette quickly smashes him to the ground with her shield. I round her back and step forward, intercepting a stroke aimed for her back. Neither of us seems to think about our movements as I bat the sword aside before she turns slashes at our foe’s thigh. He falls to the ground, sword falling from his fingers. 

Behind me I hear one of the soldiers call out a warning, before Lysette pushes me behind her with a rough shove, raising her shield. Several arrows clatter off the steel face, and I call my thanks before our own archers fire a small returning volley. Lysette charges forward and I keep pace with her, watching her flanks as she presses into the heart of the enemy. We and the Templars both approached from the west, and the mages it seems came from the east.

As such, as the rogue Templars fall to the sudden assault on their rearguard, the mages are steadfast, ready to defy our advance. Lysette and I strike up the Litany of Defiance, weakening the balls of fire and shards of ice flung towards us, but it is a vicious round of overwatch that hammers us to a near standstill. I see the mages; there are only two, supported by a small pack of sellswords who seem hesitant to advance. The Orlesian must have been correct, I assume; with their archers mostly slain, they are afraid. Good.

The soldiers advance with us, a few arrows peppering the mages and forcing them to focus on maintaining barriers and seeking cover rather than bombarding us with elemental magic. I see one fall back amidst a sudden detonation, and then hear Varric’s call of “got one!” answer my unspoken question a moment after. The sellswords, upon seeing two defiant Templars and a well-armed dwarf advancing on their position, break altogether, turning tail and fleeing. Back to the Witchwood, I assume, to report their failure to their master. 

The last mage stands defiant, however, and suddenly surges toward Lysette and I with a Fadestep, raising her staff high. I see a gout of flame burst from the end before she brings it down, and the resultant detonation knocks both of us off our feet. Lysette curses aloud, while I just shout a warning a moment too late. I scramble to find my footing again, jabbing my sword into the ground. The mage is upon me, however, and I am forced to deflect a blow of her staff’s bladed end from one knee. She raises it high again, and without thinking I reverse my blade’s course and slash at her exposed stomach. 

There is a wash of blood, and she falters, before I rise. She totters back and forth for a moment, her mouth opening to let a frothy mess of blood and spit spill forth, before she topples backwards. Lysette, having regained her footing, stands beside me. 

“It will be a long death,” she notes, dispassionate, but when I look at her I see the pity in her eyes while she stares at the dying woman.

“No.” I step forward and raise my sword, before burying it in the mage’s throat, putting an end to her suffering. “It will not.”

And with that, it is over. The people of the Crossroads begin to emerge from their huts and homes, peering out at the strange newcomers clad in green and orange and dull iron, carrying the foreign banner of a burning eye. Among the emerged I spot an elderly Chantry Mother, who watches wordlessly as I turn back to Lysette.

“Let us go find our Mother Giselle,” I propose, earning a nod. “Perhaps she will offer better advice than Varric.”

Varric’s defensive retort is all I need for the tension of the battle to fade. Well, that and the sound of Lysette’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry ‘bout that folks, the holidays were unexpectedly complicated for a little while. I’m back now, though, and I have no plans of going anywhere any time soon. Probably.


	6. Across the Hinterlands

_ “One of the most important details to remember is this, Ser Venier,” Chancellor Roderick’s voice is softer now than it was moments ago, leaning closer to me. “The Chantry is not a bad place that commonly welcomes folk like you and I.” _

_ There is a moment where I wonder what he means, staring at him across the table. He and I? What have we got in common? I am a Templar knight newly elevated, barely more than an Initiate. He is a Chancellor, one of the highest stations in the Chantry outside of the Elder Mothers and the Divine herself. We come from wholly different worlds and even wholly different times, born nearly half a century apart. _

_ And yet… he shakes his head slowly. _

_ “I can see you are confused,” he notes. “I understand. It is an unfortunate truth, Ser Venier; we are men, you and I.” _

_ And with that, it clicks. More than just his meaning; his entire character. The dogmatic attitude, the lack of respect for the Herald, his constant irritation with anyone and everyone… Chancellor Roderick is a man who climbed the ladder of a matriarchal society and system to a place higher than any other of his sex. And now? _

_ He warns me of the many tricks and traps being set for me. Because if I attempt to navigate the live minefield of Chantry Politics without the forewarning, I’ll likely be caught up in the same pitfalls that he’s described avoiding so carefully. It’s a game, he warns, that is not often played by men. Our rules are different.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ What I hear shouldn’t surprise me. The Chantry has a power structure. Such things are meant to be climbed, fairly or otherwise. But the tricks, the dirty secrets… sending whores to tempt him, accusing him of predations and depravities not his own… he navigated the winding road better than I or perhaps any other could have, and reached his station in a record time. Its impressive to hear… and disheartening. _

_ The Chantry, he warns, is a dangerous beast. Like a dragon; magnificent to behold, and oh so majestic in motion. But within there are only teeth and dark things best kept away from the wider world. He is not wrathful in his descriptions, there is only the faintest hint of bitterness in his words. But he describes to me something as corruptible and fraught with politicking as the Orlesian court or any business of the Free Cities. The difference is that those institutions trade in power and wealth respectively; the Chantry is a competition for both. _

_ “The Chantry is a beautiful thing, Sir Venier,” he tells me, laying his flute of red wine down on the table, closing his eyes and bowing his head. “But beauty often masks horror. A beautiful thing indeed… and terrible as well, in its beauty. Be careful when navigating its depths; there is a darkness below the gold and gleaming marble, and it will merrily swallow you whole should you not respect its depths.” _

_   
_ _   
_ I stand now a few feet away from Mother Giselle, and consider those words anew. Roderick is right. I do not know what makes me so certain about Giselle; she is a kind woman, wise and venerable. And yet, there is something else. She so gleefully sends me, an agent she barely knows, to a doubtless chaotic meeting with the Chantry elders. Why? They know well by now who I am. I am… was a Templar, a servant of theirs. Chanson never abandoned the Chantry. We stood defiant, safeguarding our charges in our little Circle on the edges of Orlais. Those Mothers, should they care, will know my date of birth, the names of my parents, everything that has ever occurred in my life.

And yet, she sends me regardless. So they can see me. So they can fear me. And in fearing, they may lash out or run away. The Templars will denounce them. The Mages will be no closer to them. The Chantry, I know already, is a faction that holds little power in the coming struggle. And yet I am to approach them, to seek validation they will not… no, validation they cannot give. 

The idea comes again. Mad. Ridiculous even. But an idea nonetheless. Templars, Mages, Chantry and Inquisition. It will be difficult to arrange. It will be a gamble in action. But if it works… I may just save Thedas better than was ever possible in the game. Or I may damn it to something worse. 

“Maker guide me…” I murmur, rubbing my forehead with my palm and sighing deeply. “At least we have plenty of time to consider it…”   
  
A month and a half. Full stop and no debate, the Chantry will present themselves and a public announcement in Val Royeaux in six weeks, give or take a few days. It is, from the Hinterlands to Val Royeaux, a two week journey by caravan. Less than a week back to Haven. I have at least four weeks with which to do anything. It is oddly liberating; now I have time to set things right here, and perhaps elsewhere as well. After Val Royeaux, things will truly begin to move; allies will be gained, enemies opposed, factions will shake off the rust and begin to plot and plan. 

  
Until then, the Hinterlands.

“So, Kid, what’s the plot now?” Varric asks me, leaning against a narrow fir tree with a lazy grin on his face. “We headed back to Haven?”   
  
“Not yet.” I shake my head, looking at a tired Lysette sitting beneath the same tree, her shield leaned up beside her and her sword in her lap as she oils it. “There’s a whole heap of things to be done here first. The mages from before told us where the Apostate base is. I want to try and find where the rogue Templars are camped as well.”

“So we’re going asshole-hunting?” Varric shrugs, pushing off the tree. “Alright, works for me. I wouldn’t mind sticking around these parts a little longer.”   
  
Lysette stands as well, sheathing her shortsword and hefting her shield on her arm. My trusty blade is still by my side, freshly cleaned as I spoke to the Mother. I couldn’t help myself; talking to authority figures I don’t know leaves me jittery. I need something to do with my hands. Cleaning my weapon seemed a reasonable way to occupy my idle hands.

We review what little we know as we walk. The apostates are in the Witchwood, on the northern edge of the Hinterlands. But the Templars are off to the south. I know they’re camped by a river somewhere, the issue being that I can recall which river or in what direction we must go. The Hinterlands are a place criss-crossed with rivers stretching over one another in all directions; flowing freely from the lake above the crossroads into the valley below, feeding a tributary near Redcliffe at the edge of another, greater lake. Which of these hides the Templars?   
  
“Perhaps our scouts saw something,” I posit, before looking around the bustle of the crossroads as the Inquisition makes camp. “Though ten gold to the first of us to find one with the time to talk.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Varric says, looking up at me. “Give me five minutes and I’ll find something to go off. You two kids relax for a minute, alright?”   
  
Before either Lysette or I can protest, he takes off away from us, towards the side path that leads to the overlook above the crossroads. I don’t doubt his chances; he seems able to strike up a casual conversation with just about anybody. Lysette watches him go with a frown, before leaning back against the tree with a sigh. I join her under its wide branches, appreciative of the shade and quiet.

  
“I do not understand him.” Lysette’s voice comes in a sudden interjection, and I start a little as I look at her. “He speaks so easily, as if words were just breath. How does he not run out of things to say?”   
  
“Practice?” I offer, and she looks at me with her sharp blue eyes.    
  
“Perhaps,” she says, before leaning in closer to me. “You seem much better at keeping up with him than I am. Do you share his secret?”   
  
“I enjoy his company,” I raise open hands as if to protect myself, and she chuckles, pulling back. “Besides, it’s usually him who’s talking. I just listen as best I can and interject when I think I’ve something clever to say.”   
  
Lysette considers my words, before looking over at the rise. We can’t see him, but no doubt he’s already found his mark. That would be good, if I had ten gold to pay. Looting corpses seems a little odd a practice when one is trying to restore order to a world gone mad, and I haven’t had the courage to try it yet. I have seen our other soldiers picking through bags and pockets in the aftermath of our victory here, though, so perhaps I might give it a try later.   
  
We remain in quiet, Lysette and I, for a few long minutes as we await our dwarven friend’s return. She braces her shield back on the ground, leaning against it with one elbow atop it and her other hand on her hip, head bowed. It’s a curious pose. I elect to sit in the shade, relaxing a little as ordered by Varric and enjoying my first moment’s rest of the day. I rest my sheathed sword across my lap and lean against the sturdy bark of the tree’s weathered trunk, letting a soft sigh escape me as my eyes slip shut.

“-id?” I startle awake with a grunt, jerking forward and forcing Varric to nimbly backstep so I don’t nail him in the nose with my forehead. “Whoa! Good morning!”

I look around. The sun’s barely moved in the sky, Lysette’s smirking at me and I still feel a little groggy. Beck thrums warm around my arm, but if we spoke while I slept I remember nothing of it. Varric grins and offers me a hand which I take, standing up and restrapping my sword to my belt.

“Any luck?” I ask, swallowing back the fuzzy sensation in my mouth and shaking my head to clear the last cobwebs of that short sleep from my mind. 

“Scout Harding says the Templars seem to mostly be pushing from the western road, with Apostates coming from the north.” he confirms what I suspected I knew, before frowning. “Only issue is, it’s open farmland that way, and the place is crawling with both groups. Trying to fight our way through would get us swarmed.”   
  
Lysette scoffs quietly, but I shake my head. Three apostates was trouble enough, and our prior victory here saw us marching with a dozen other soldiers. If it is to be only the three of us on this march, without a mage to support…    
  
“We’ll go quietly, around the southern edge.” I declare, nodding. “If the Templars come from the west, and the Apostates the north, approaching from south-east will take us around the bulk of their forces. The Templars are likely set up near a water source.”   
  
“In this heat, they would need a cave to store their Lyrium,” Lysette notes. “Or somewhere particularly damp.”   
  
“A waterfall, maybe…” I wonder aloud, remembering vague memories of this sidequest from Marcus’ time playing. 

Varric watches us as we ponder, before turning to face east, arms crossed.

“Going quiet sounds like a nice break from all this marching.” he says. “So, water source with a cave or waterfall. There’s a river that intersects the western road. Maybe we ought to start there?”   
  
Lysette and I agree with simultaneous statements of “Yes”, before glancing sidelong at each other and cracking up in laughter. Varric watches us over his shoulder, rolling his eyes dramatically at our antics before pointing to the tunnel exit into the farmland.    
  
“Let’s get going then,” he sighs, before we take off.

It’s slow going at first, enjoying the cool temperature of the tunnel before returning to the hard Ferelden sun. This land is lush with life, but it’s also achingly hot at midday, particularly now in the summer months. It isn’t so harsh to me; the Dales are often hot and dry, but I can tell Lysette, used to the temperate climates of the northern Orlesian coast, is flagging somewhat. Varric doesn’t seem to mind either way; his biggest issue is always the walking.

The tunnel exit beckons us back into the open light… and then into the ruin dealt upon the land. It’s a visage of apocalypse in miniature, fires engulfing the fields and great jutting spars of ice raised like defiant fingers to the heavens. The charnel stink of the Templar and Apostate war fills our lungs as we take that first hesitant breath, and I gag a little. Smells of smoke from burning wood, vegetation and flesh alike fill the air, and the sound of buzzing flies and crackling flame drones and pops in our ears.    
  
We set southwards, along the craggy rocks, moving low and quiet. The shrubbery here has been spared the worst of the conflict, still growing strong and defiant of fires both magic and mundane, and it provides a sturdy cover from the roving eyes of both factions. In the distance we hear shouting, a clash of blades, and a thunderclap as a bolt of lightning falls from a clear sky. The distant edifice of a Ferelden fort looms over the valley’s north-western corner, though none of us know its name.

  
Travelling west is much harder than going south. We creep quietly through the sparse woodland, darting between groves of wizened fruit trees left abandoned by fearful farmers. It takes hours of daylight to traverse just a few kilometers, as we are forced by patrols of Templars and Apostates alike to move in fits and bursts. My waterskin, damn my foolishness, runs dry soon enough, but Lysette is kind enough to share. Varric just watches as we break for a drink, ducked low in a dry trench likely once used for irrigation, his eyes watching the farmland beyond with a keen hatred.

Lysette is running ragged at this point, her breath coming hard and quick, sweat running down her face in rivulets. The sun is brutal above us, a tyrant in a cloudless sky, the fires only serving to enhance its heat. Her armour is heavier than mine as well, a solid breastplate engraved with the head of a lion and similarly plated pauldrons, vambraces and greaves contrasting my own chain and leather. Varric’s half-unbuttoned doublet is likely more pleasant in the heat than either of our armours, though I doubt either of us would willingly trade the protection of steel and leather for the comfort of wool and silk.

“We should find somewhere to break for the night,” Varric declares after a few minutes of rest, slinking back away from the dusty edge and rejoining us at the trench’s bottom. “There’s a few farmhouses more intact than not about. We can duck into one of them for a rest.”   
  
“Might be some food left inside, if we’re lucky,” Lysette murmurs, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “And water. Shade would be nice too.”   
  
“I could use a bottle of something strong,” Varric mutters, and I crack a weak grin at his admittance. “Got half of an Orlesian white in my bag, though.”   
  
“I have jerky.” I offer. “I think it was beef, but I can’t recall.”   
  
“All meat tastes the same once it’s been turned to leather, Kid.” Varric replies. “Pork, beef, horse or veal. Mmmm… veal.”

Lysette licks her lips, and we sit in silence for a moment. 

“So…” I break the silence. “Farmhouse?”   
  
“More hut than house, but all’s the same when you’re…” Varric falls silent suddenly, and beckons for us to do the same. 

Lysette and I both obey as the edge of a shadow falls across our shallow cover, moving slowly. I hear footsteps, enough for a single man. Varric reaches for Bianca, but Lysette silently puts a hand on his wrist, before gesturing to the mechanism. Varric nods, and Lysette reaches to her sword, sliding it free of its sheath with a whisper-quiet rasp of steel on leather. She then looks at her arms, covered in plate, and glances at me.    
  
I hold out a hand, and she passes me the sword. Silently I crawl up the edge of the trench, peering over the top. A lone Templar stands above, an archer, his back to me. His bow is in his lap, fingers working to replace a broken string. He fumbles with it, before cursing quietly as the replacement falls from his hands. I swallow, before looking down at Lysette. She nods, encouraging.    
  
I climb out of the trench. The sun is ahead of me, his shadow falling over my legs as I creep silently behind him. He hears nothing, still fumbling with the bowstring. His armour is chain and leather like my own, more leather than metal, however. His throat is a narrow slash of pale flesh between the brown of his jerkin and the dull iron of his open-faced helmet. I consider my course of action for but a moment.    
  
Then, I grab his shoulder, wrenching him backwards. There is a moment, just a split second, where a hoarse cry escapes his lips, before Lysette’s sword is buried five inches into his neck from the front, leaving him gurgling and choking on steel and blood. His body seizes up, fingers clasping helplessly at my wrist, eyes wide with horror. I meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry, brother.” I whisper, and he falls back, dead.    
  
I pull the sword free with a sickeningly wet sucking sound, cleaning it on the cloth about his waist. The blood streaks the clean white fabric with crimson, and I wipe until the blade is clean and all hints of my sin are gone from it. Then I look around again. He was alone, it seems, a bowman standing a solemn vigil. I leave him where he lay, slinking back to the trench and sliding down the dusty side.    
  
At the bottom, Lysette accepts her sword with a wordless nod, and Varric places a hand on my back. I sigh, once, Beck thrumming gently again around my arm. Lysette checks her sword, wiping off a thin streak of red I missed, before sheathing it back at her side. Varric nods at both of us, once, before pointing further down the trench. 

“Let’s move.” he whispers, and we both nod in agreement before following. 

The sun finally begins to set as we creep out of the trench near the back of a small cluster of farming homes, a little hamlet along the southern edge. I don’t remember it from Marcus’ memories, but at this point I’m far too drained to care what is and isn’t accurate. We move quietly around the edge of one of these squat, round huts, but it seems completely abandoned by its dwellers, and ignored by Templars and Apostates alike. Good. We could use the quiet.

A few minutes later, we’re inside a hut and resting on rustic wooden chairs. I almost stop Lysette from making a fire, but Varric shakes his head. 

“The Templars and Apostates have fires aplenty out there,” he notes, peering out the window. “Not to mention all the smoke from the fields. Nobody’ll notice one more plume in the air, especially not from a little hearth like this.”

Lysette sets the fire going, pleasantly surprised by the remaining supply of firewood by the hearth. We are even more pleasantly surprised to find a small stock of cheese and bread alike in the pantry. It is on my journey to the kitchen, however, that I find something a little more interesting than food; a dagger, embedded in the door frame, with a scrap of paper still stuck at the end. I blink at the sight, before pulling the dagger free. The scrap of paper is tiny and ragged, likely all that remains of a note torn off the wall earlier. Odd…

I don’t mention it to the others. Lysette looks about ready to doze off in her chair, and Varric and I make a quiet pact over a sparse but filling dinner of cheese and boiled jerky to give her the bed while we make do with blankets on the wooden floor. We share that bottle of wine, now lukewarm but still better tasting than any liquor I’ve had before, slightly sweet with a hint of some spice I can’t be bothered to name. Lysette declares it ‘acceptable’, which I’m sure was intended to be less scathing than it sounded. 

“So, now that we have some time to ourselves....” Varric begins, once dinner is polished off and we’re all relaxing in our chairs around the warm fire. “I was wondering if you’d both let me ask a few questions.”   
  
“About what?” Lysette asks rather sharply, and Varric raises a hand defensively. 

“Easy there, Kit, just wanted to know more about the two ex-Templars I’ve found myself travelling with,” he declares. “I’ve only known one Templar before you two, and he was a bit of shit before he joined up. I like knowing the people I’ll be fighting alongside. Besides, if I ever get a book out of this, it’ll be good to have the inside scoop.” 

Lysette and I share a glance, before she sighs.

“My full name is Lysette du Montefort, second daughter of Raymond du Montefort, Marquis of Delisle Harbour.” Lysette announces herself in a deadpan, as though imitating the crier at a feast or salon somewhere. “I was given to the Order when I was twelve to prove my family’s devotion the Chant of Light, and served under Knight-Captain Rylen in the Montsimmard Circle.”   
  
“Markus Venier,” I say, looking at Varric myself. “First son of… I-I’d rather not say.”    
  
I am overcome with that familiar shame of my origin, my hands tensing a little as I look into the dancing fire. For a moment I am back in Montsimmard, barely a day over four, hearing the Knight-Commander and Enchanters debate my future. I hear my own mother speak, I turn and run away, the Knight-brother behind me failing to catch me. I stare into the fire and remember for a long few moments, before a gentle hand touches my leg. I blink, looking up at Lysette, who herself is staring at me with worry in those blue eyes. I feel Beck move along my arm, softly reminding me of its presence.

“I-I’m sorry…” I murmur, wiping my damp eyes, telling myself that it’s the brightness of the fire that brought tears to them. “I was… I grew up and joined the Order in Chanson, under Knight-Captain Sarker. Then… well, you know the story of the Conclave, and its aftermath.”   
  
“Yeah… damned mess that was.” Varric murmurs, staring into the fire himself for a long moment. “Well, I suppose it’s time I gave you two the tell-all about your favourite dwarf. Varric Tethras, son of Indrick and Valerica Tethras. My family were noble caste down in Orzammar for a while, until we got caught fixing provings. That lost us our honour, so we got kicked out. I was born in Kirkwall, and if it were up to me, I’d still be there. No offense to present company, of course.”   
  
He smiles at Lysette and I.

“None taken,” I assure him. “I miss Chanson as well. Do you miss Montsimmard, Lysette?”   
  
“No.” she says, voice flat. “It was a miserable place, especially after the rebellion. It was an ill time to be a Templar in Montsimmard then.”

“I can’t imagine…” I nod, staring into the fire again. “In Chanson, the rebellion was a quiet thing. Most of the mages were afraid we would hurt them. But the Captain reminded us of our duty. There was argument, debate, a fight here or there. But little more than that.”   
  
“We lost the Knight-Commander the same day the vote was cast.” Lysette replied, shaking her head. “His office erupted into flame. One of the apprentices tried to kill me in the halls. That was… that was the first time I had to kill anyone.”   
  
We sit in silence for a while, remembering our pasts. Still I return to that worst of days, when I was cast aside by Montsimmard and sent away to keep the peace. I remember and I am lost in the remembrance, my eyes shutting so slowly I don’t even know I’ve fallen asleep until once more I wake.    
  
There is a thunderous sound from outside, a crashing against the door, and a voice calls for us to open it. Someone calls me brother, and for a moment I wonder if I’m not dreaming as I flail around in the gloom, rising from the chair and nearly falling into the last embers of the fireplace. My hand grabs the hearth and I hold onto that to steady myself, as the door shakes again. The voice mocks me, declaring that I’ve made my last mistake. I’m almost baffled by how cliche he sounds, before I realize the world is growing brighter.    
  
Fire. A small one, licking at the odd diamond-shaped window, filled not with glass but with slats of wood as somebody throws a torch inside. In an instant it occurs to me that this whole building is made of wood, and I pause in horror as the floor begins to char and burn.    
  
“Kid!” Varric shouts, fumbling a bolt into Bianca as he emerges from within the kitchen. “The door!”   
  
I rush it, circling around the slowly growing fire, and ram it with my shoulder. There is no give whatsoever, and when I push against it nothing comes of the effort. Its’ jammed… no, I realize. Blocked. Something heavy, braced well to hold the door shut. I curse quietly, before turning. Varric’s loaded his bolt, and he shouts to me to cover my ears.    
  
Then he fires it at another of the windows, and I put my hands over my ears just in time to block out the sound of the small explosive at the bolt’s end blows a hole in the wall the size of him. He shouts at me to move and I obey, Lysette stumbling out with her shield in one hand and her sword still in its sheath. She takes off after me as I run, jumping through the hole and nearly falling into that dry ditch from before. Lysette follows, ramming into me by accident, and we both go tumbling into the irrigation trench, still dusty as ever. 

Fortunately, neither of us has our weapon out, so our fall doesn’t end in impalement. She struggles to disentangle herself from me as we hear movement above us. She pulls herself off of me and I rise to my feet, seeing armoured legs standing at the edge of the trench. I look up to see Templars, two of them, swords in their hands. They don’t attack, however, staring down at me, as surprised by my presence as I am by theirs.    
  
Before they can realize we aren’t Templars, however, one of them lurches forward, and I am forced to sidestep his falling corpse, a crossbow bolt jutting from his spinal column. His compatriot turns, but only makes it halfway around before a bolt catches him in the neck, sending him sprawling into the trench with the first. I climb out of the trench as Varric cocks Bianca again, loading another bolt, and Lysette climbs up after me with a groan.

“How many?” she asks, and I shake my head, still baffled by the situation. “Dammit. What was the man yelling about?”   
  
“Something to do with his brother,” Varric notes, walking toward us. “Come on. We need to get into the trees. I heard at least four more of them, and we won’t have the element of surprise for long.”   
  
“We should stand.” Lysette, argues. “We can take four traitors.”   
  
“And what about the friends they’ll start calling for when they’re losing?” Varric asks, shaking his head. “Too risky. We need to get out of here, right away.”   
  
“I agree with Varric,” I add, Lysette turning on me with an angry scowl. “We can’t seek a fight with half the rogue Templars, not now. This is meant to be a scouting mission.”   
  
“Ugh…” Lysette bites back a retort, before looking at Varric. “Fine. Lead on, dwarf.”   
  
“Touchy…” Varric murmurs, before sliding down one edge of the irrigation trench and climbing up the other end. “Come on!”   
  
Lysette and I both jump the trench, following Varric into the woods as our former shelter burns behind us. Nobody immediately pursues, though I see a figure round the flaming structure and call out to someone else before I lose sight of them in the trees. We stay low in the bushes, moving quickly and quietly. Varric leads the way, occasionally coming to a stop for a moment or two to search for a path, before leading us on. 

We carry on this way for at least an hour, until finally we come to a halt by a small pond in the woods. Varric signals us to stop, and then immediately drops down to one knee, before sliding into a more comfortable sitting position at the base of a tree. 

  
“Should be enough distance,” he says, before kicking off his boots. “Ugh. Leave it to the Templars to waste a perfectly good hut like that.”   
  
Lysette and I both stare at him for a moment, and he rolls his eyes.

“Present company excluded… again.” he says, before laying Bianca down on the ground beside him. “You two should get some rest. Sun’s probably up in a few hours, and we’ll want to be moving when that happens.”

I sit down heavily under my own tree, while Lysette stalks off to a further edge of the clearing from each of us, setting her shield down on the ground like a wall between us. I look at Varric, who just shrugs with a wry grin. 

“Her pride’s stung, kid.” he says, voice low. “Just let her ride it out. She doesn’t seem like the kind who much likes running from a fight.”

I don’t bother dwelling on it for long. I’m tired, more than I think I’ve ever been, and once I lay my head down on the grass with one arm propped underneath it I’m out like a light, Beck’s warmth around my wrist a reassuring feeling that helps lull me to an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands are going to take a little while, though I hope I’ve made the place a little more interesting to those of you who have spent as many long hours traipsing through its woods and valleys as I have. As for the newcomers among you… well, I hope I’ve interested you, if you’re still here. Have a lovely February, all.


End file.
